Back at the car to leave the airport. You can see it's a pretty blustery day.

The flight to Santorini was cancelled! No kidding. The weather never improved, and it was cancelled! When they made the announcement, my “go with the flow” bliss morphed into instant “pissed off-ness.” I mean, sure, I didn’t mind a little delay, but not going altogether? Arrgh! I suddenly found that I had been really looking forward to overlooking the Mediterranean and marveling at the sheer beauty of it. Of finding quiet solace in my little cave-like room, with its balcony. The charming little room that I was never going to see. Instead, I was going back to impinge on my relative’s company, horn in on their activities, and eat more of their food.

And then I remembered - there’s going to be a wedding tonight – a Greek wedding. And I’ve been invited. And although I always cry at weddings and crying is something I try to avoid since I lost my husband, maybe I won’t cry at this one because I don’t understand the language. And there’ll be dancing. Greek dancing.

Okay. The wedding didn't work out either. But I did make it to stunning Delphi, once considered the spiritual center of the earth.

And I started thinking – maybe this was meant to be. Like my not being able to use my phone since landing in Greece, inexplicably not being able to log on for emails, and fighting a case of bronchitis for the first four days; maybe the universe is just making sure (making damn sure) I was going to go with the flow and not expect too much. Then again, maybe it was protecting me; telling me that I was not yet ready for the sensory over-loading bliss of the sheer beauty of nature in Santorini. Or maybe s!*t just happens sometimes.

Like it, or not, though – I am going with the flow. And sometimes it works out that, the further we get away from something, the closer we get to something else. One thing’s for sure – life was not listening to my plans that week.

And as I got over the initial shock and indignation that my flight was cancelled, I started to relax again. This is not bad. Not too bad. And then I started thinking about the wedding…and oh, wait, maybe I’ll make it to Delphi after all…and besides, my relatives are really wonderful, delightful people…and I am already feeling like a part of my Greek family.

Kitten outside the Delphi museum.

Statue inside the Delphi museum.

A beautiful and enticing promo shot for the island, Santorini, Greece.

Here I am, sitting in the Athens airport in Greece, waiting to board my flight to the island of Santorini (voted best island in the world this year, I’ve been told). We are delayed because the winds in Santorini kicked up, and are beyond the landing capability of the aircraft. Actually, we were already on the plane when the weather had turned, and were taken off, and put back in the terminal – where we now wait for updates on the weather every twenty minutes, or so.

The scoreboard at the Athens Airport.

And oddly, I feel . . . comforted, like, “I know how to do this.” I know how to adapt when I’m traveling, and I love this curve ball I’ve been thrown. It feels like adventure. Why? Because it’s not going according to plan.

It reminds me of so many experiences flying in our Cessna 414. My husband, Patrick, and I would take that plane cross-country, which is pretty ambitious for a 414. I flew it on my own, coast to coast, a few times. And I always said – if you’re going to be flying a small plane, you’d better be ready for adventure – because you never know what might happen, and where.

We once sat on the ground in Memphis, Tennessee, while we waited out a squall line of thunderstorm for three hours in the middle of the night before we could resume our trip into Washington National airport  (we were the only plane that got in that night).

And in a podunk town in Oklahoma, I thought I was grounded for good when I landed for fuel, and found all of the oil from my left engine spewed across the wing. It turned out to be a small hole near the top of the dipstick, and under pressure, this tiny pinpoint was big enough to empty the entire contents of my engine. Luckily, it was expertly soldered by the local mechanic, and I was on my way the following morning.

So, this delay makes me feel…happy. I actually get more stressed out when I have a long, detailed list of to-do’s to make a trip a happy one. It makes me feel like I’m under pressure. A little like how I feel about New Year’s Eve parties, and why I avoid them – you show up with a “result” in mind – the It’s-New-Year’s-Eve-and-I-need-to-party-whether-I-like-it-or-not syndrome.

Ah, so now, the pressure is off. I sit in an airport, waiting. And Santorini can wait while I enjoy this detour. Now I don’t have to worry about scheduling myself, squeezing every moment out of my short trip there, and being in one of the most romantic places in the world by myself.

“Grief’s tough,” I tweeted the other day, along with this quote, “He did not say: You will not be troubled, you will not be belabored, you will not be disquieted; but he said: you will not be overcome.” Julian of Norwich

I am amazed at how people manage to survive grief. I know they must because I’m not the only person in the world who’s ever lost someone they love. And if I’m having this much trouble…

Sometimes I don’t want to say how badly I’m doing, because I don’t want the people who are just starting this journey to get so disheartened they want to jump off a cliff. But grief and healing takes a long, long time to…..well, I’m starting to wonder if it does anything except clunk down in the middle of one’s life, and not move.

And yes, I do have good days. And some days I feel really, really good. But lately, it seems the “downs” are more down than ever before. What’s with that? And there’s a new ingredient thrown into the mix that wasn’t there before – the feeling that I want to give up. I’ve been so good. Tried so hard to keep going. And now, I’m just tired, and want to give in.

Everyone hits a wall. I know there was a moment when my husband was sick that I worried that I wouldn’t be able to go on. And now I feel that wall firmly entrenching itself in front of me again. But this time there’s no rope to pull me over.

One of my widow friends just went through a bad spell. And on the spur of the moment, she rented an apartment and moved to a different city! I know why. While you can’t “run away” from your feelings, it’s worse, much worse to just stay there with them. Engaging in distractions, retail therapy, organizational stuff…are honorable attempts to make it through the day. Valiant ways of doing our best to survive. And I say – whatever gets you through the night.

Another widow friend mentioned that she was worse than ever right around the time that I am now. She kept on thinking to herself, “I should be better.” She wasn’t, and she was beating herself up for it. She had to just let it go, and accept where she was.

I wrote in my journal the other day, and below is an excerpt:

Hideous, and hurtful.

How long do I have to live with this loneliness.

How do other people find the strength to go on?

Wish I could speed up the process,

Feel like I’m just ticking off days until I’m gone.

I’m weeping again,

And again,

And again.

They say it never goes away. It’s true,

Practice does not make perfect,

I’m two and half years into this,

And I’m too slow a learner

In learning how to live without you.

I don’t think I’ve ever run into anything that I haven’t been able to change through good intention and attitude. Grief laughs in my face at that. It’s its own entity. That leaves me with just trying to find a way to carry this heavy burden as I go through life. And I’m thinking…if grief is going to keep me this close a company, I’d need to learn to respect the beast.

The dance "Mercy" begins at an invited rehearsal, downtown in NYC.

Clifford & Sabra – two of Complexion's amazing dancers.

Last Wednesday in New York City, I attended an open rehearsal of Complexions Contemporary Ballet. I love open rehearsals – you’re in the room with the dancers, there are no costumes, you hear them breathe, and the experience is up-close and personal. For the uninitiated, it’s a glimpse of what goes into making a performance. Like being backstage. Like watching a painting in progress. They count, make mistakes, it’s raw, and they are wonderful.

With Desmond Richardon in NY last December.

My initial connection to this company was through making my movie “One Last Dance.” Artistic Directors, Dwight Rhoden and Desmond Richardson, contributed choreography to my film, and Desmond also danced (amazingly) in it. And as with all the choreographers who worked on the film, Patrick and I remained close friends with them.

With choreographer Dwight Rhoden

But what was even more special about seeing the rehearsal was I finally got to see a portion of “Mercy,” the ballet that has become something of a signature piece for the company. And what makes it even more special – the piece was created and dedicated to my husband, Patrick.

Dwight and Desmond came out to LA to visit in 2008 when Patrick was ill. It was then that Dwight asked Patrick how he’d feel about him making this piece and dedicating it to him. Patrick nodded that he would love it. It seems incredible that it’s only now I’ve gotten to see some bits of the piece: the beginning, a duet, and the ending.

"Mercy" in rehearsal.

Wow.  I loved it.

You know, I’m always amazed when a piece of art, whether it’s music, a ballet, a poem…I’m amazed at how deeply it can touch. And when it does, it’s like a bit of magic happens.

I’ve run into so many people who are scared off of art because they think they have to “understand” it. Nah. I’m a great believer that art means whatever it means – to you. And for me, watching “Mercy,” it was about that delicate, tenuous space between life and death. It reminded me how fragile our hold on this world is – how we nervously negotiate the rights for the small place we inhabit here on earth, how we barter for our hopeful spot in heaven (or other parts unknown), and please, how we hope that we’re not taken before we’re ready to go.

A photo of "Mercy" in performance.

There is something so huge, and so primal about the desire to live, and thrive. That, and what can’t help but follow next – the “big question,” death, and the fear of the unknown.

I know when Patrick was ill; those huge, looming questions weighed in all around us. We were being smacked up close to the unknown and the eternal. And to put it mildly – it really made us pause.

"Mercy" in performance. This pas de deux had shades of the duet Patrick and I danced in my film "One Last Dance." Desmond asked if I noticed… Yes, I did.

We hang on here by such a thin thread.

I could see why the ballet was named, “Mercy.” Mercy… What more can you ask when you are in that place between life and death? A circumstance you have no control over?

Mercy…

In performance.

The dance was very deep for me, startling… And I was grateful. To be reminded of how precious my time here on earth is. How I should not squander it. That I should appreciate, and enjoy my appreciation of what I have right here, right now.

I was walking with a friend a couple days later. The streets in busy midtown were sun lit, warm, and perfect as we weaved in and out of the shoppers, heaved up with the crowds to stoplights, and sidestepped baby strollers… I felt like I was in a bubble, and felt a strange kind of bliss as I looked out at the people around me; they were laughing, talking, couples held hands, girls tittered and leaned on each other, a man smiled and seemed to smell the air… And I marveled – they look so happy. And I felt so happy for them.

The fabulous company takes a bow at the end of the rehearsal. Everyone one of these dancers is so unique, and talented. Bravo!

One day, I’ll get to see “Mercy” in its entirety!  However, for those in the Detroit area…

Complexions Ballet will be performing (“Mercy” will be on the program): this coming May 5th & 6th at Detroit Music Hall – Center for the Performing Arts.

I imagine that this story takes place on a COLD road, like this.

If you didn’t see this on the Tonight show, I hope you’re sitting down when you read it. This is probably the funniest date story ever, first date, or not!!! We have all had bad dates but this takes the cake.

Jay Leno went into the audience to find the most embarrassing first date that a woman ever had. The winner described her worst first date experience. There was absolutely no question as to why her tale took the prize!

She said it was midwinter…Snowing and quite cold… and the guy had taken her skiing in the mountains outside Salt Lake City , Utah. It was a day trip (no overnight). They were strangers, after all, and had never met before. The outing was fun but relatively uneventful until they were headed home late that afternoon.

They were driving back down the mountain, when she gradually began to realize that she should not have had that extra latte. They were about an hour away from anywhere with a rest room and in the middle of nowhere! Her companion suggested she try to hold it, which she did for a while. Unfortunately, because of the heavy snow and slow going, there came a point here she told him that he had better stop and let her go beside the road, or it would be the front seat of his car.

They stopped and she quickly crawled out beside the car, yanked her pants down and started. In the deep snow she didn’t have good footing, so she let her butt rest against the rear fender to steady herself. Her companion stood on the side of the car watching for traffic and indeed was a real gentleman and refrained from peeking. All she could think about was the relief she felt despite the rather embarrassing nature of the situation.

Upon finishing however, she soon became aware of another sensation. As she bent to pull up her pants, the young lady discovered her buttocks were firmly glued against the car’s fender. Thoughts of tongues frozen to poles immediately came to mind as she attempted to disengage her flesh from the icy metal. It was quickly apparent that she had a brand new problem, due to the extreme cold.

Horrified by her plight and yet aware of the humor of the moment, she answered her date’s concerns about’ what is taking so long’ with a reply that indeed, she was ‘freezing her butt off’ and in need of some assistance! He came around the car as she tried to cover herself with her sweater and then, as she looked imploringly into his eyes, he burst out laughing. She too, got

the giggles and when they finally managed to compose themselves, they assessed her dilemma. Obviously, as hysterical as the situation was, they also were faced with a real problem.

Both agreed it would take something hot to free her chilly cheeks from the grip of the icy metal! Thinking about what had gotten her into the predicament in the first place, both quickly realized that there was only one way to get her free. So, as she looked the other way, her first time date proceeded to unzip his pants and pee her butt off the fender.

As the audience screamed in laughter, she took the Tonight Show prize hands down. Or perhaps that should be ‘pants down’. And you thought your first date was embarrassing. Jay Leno’s comment…’This gives a whole new meaning to being pissed off.’

Oh and how did the first date turn out? He became her husband and was sitting next to her on the Leno show.

It’s been hard to think about them when the passion has been wrung out of my life. Nothing seems to matter as much as the life that I lost when my Buddy died. Everything pales in comparison.

So, how do I find passion again? And I wonder – does the grief cover up the things I care about? Deaden the sound of its call? Is it a way of staying safe while I heal?

And then, there is the fear. Who am I now without my loved one?

I am treading into such foreign territory. And it’s frightening.

Who am I? I would feel so much more comfortable if I could just take a permanent vacation. I would just drift, not worry about money, houses, families, possessions… In a way, disengage from life. A wonderful way to hide forever. But can I do that? No. Well…not unless I want to spend the rest of my life sleeping in KOA campgrounds.

I have questioned why I haven’t moved ahead on some things that were meaningful to me before. And I can only think that it’s the fear of becoming this new person. The person without my loved one. It’s the new frontier. The unproven life.

I had dinner with an old friend, and I mentioned my hesitation in pursuing particular work, that I feel so “out of it,” that I’m afraid I won’t find my way back in again. And he said,

“You have to do the thing you’re afraid of. You have to. That’s how we learn, that’s how we grow.”

Ping. His words cut right through me. Yes, that’s how we learn and grow. How great is it to be reminded of that? When I had started to become more effective in my life was when I stopped worrying about failure. If I failed, so what – I’ll just come at it a different way.

On the tarmac, getting last minute instructions before take off in my aerobatic plane, the Pitts S2B.

But I surprised myself that I had a positive reaction to his words. They inspired me. And it made me think – maybe I have not lost my passion so much as I’ve been afraid to live without my husband.

I’ve always thought that one of the hardest things I could do after I lost him would be to actually be happy again.

And then, as if the universe was coming in with a resounding “yes!” to facing fears, the next day, another friend buoyed me up in an almost identical way, echoing the same encouraging words about moving forward, and growing.  And I tell you; sometimes all I need is a little encouragement. A little can go a long way with me. (you know what – I don’t think it would hurt if we all encouraged each other more. Whaddya think?)

I love Eleanor Roosevelt, who had once said: “You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.”

And who am I? My friends reminded me that I am not just this little, hurt girl that I feel like I am most of the time – but the woman who suited up, faced, and fought against death itself when my husband was sick. What can be more frightening and challenging?

Do what you are afraid of – I felt the call. And I got a glimpse of something that just might be tantalizing in my life. And you know what? My teetering on the edge feels like it’s blossoming into commitment to do the things I’ve been putting off for so long now, make the phone calls I’ve delayed… I’m going to take a chance. Jump in with both feet. I’m not sure where it’s going to take me yet. I won’t know until I’m really in it. But I won’t know where it will take me unless I try.

And if I fail..? Well, what a ride.

Like many of you, I have been deeply affected by this devastating disease. My husband, Patrick Swayze, fought this formidable enemy for 22 months before succumbing to it in September 2009.

Even though Patrick is gone, the fight against pancreatic cancer remains. It hasn’t been easy, but my determination and passion to continue to fight this disease in his honor is motivated by the many volunteers and survivors who I’ve met and the progress we are making.

Despite the fact that pancreatic cancer is the fourth leading cause of cancer death in the United States, the disease has no early detection method and few effective treatment options are available for patients. It is the only one of the top ten cancer killers with a five-year survival rate in the single digits, a statistic that has not improved significantly in more than 40 years.

We must work together to change these odds for all of our friends and loved ones who now face this disease as well as the many thousands who will be diagnosed in the future.

PurpleStride New York City pays tribute to all those lost to pancreatic cancer. The event also empowers those currently battling the disease with the hope that one day, with your help, we can put an end to pancreatic cancer. Please join me in creating hope and being part of this truly amazing effort!

Please support the important work of the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network and their goal of doubling the pancreatic cancer survival rate by 2020. Register today at www.purplestride.org. Sign up as an individual or form a team to walk together, and join with thousands of others on April 21 in making strides toward a cure.

Thank you for supporting this important cause!

Sincerely,
Lisa Niemi Swayze

Warning! Sad blog follows. Don’t want to ruin your day, but maybe you feel like I do…

The coral tree above my house blooms against the cold sky.

It’s a cold, grey day in LA. And it fits my morose mood. It’s not typical. Usually in LA, the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping when I open my eyes and say, “My life s***s.” It’s almost like beautiful days taunt me, like, it’s a lovely picture printed on paper, one I can easily put my hand through and tear apart. The day is only a backdrop to my pain.

But today, today is gloomy, and what do you know – so am I. It’s one of those days that comes and hits me hard in the solar plexus. That wants to cripple me. And all I can think is – how long will this last? How long do I have to live before I die?

Okay. Reading what I just wrote – I sound pretty depressed, huh? But, I don’t think there’s anyone out there who wouldn’t agree with me that – Grief S*%#s. It really does.

This grey day is one of those days that is filled with a kind of last-ditch desperation. Unbearable feelings of pain, anger, and sadness that panic me as I try to find a way to escape them. I go through the list of the things I could, and/or want to do, 1) curl up in bed and not move, 2) crack open a beer, 3) *crack open a beer, and curl up in my bed and not move. There are more ambitious solutions, 1) sell everything and move to a different city, 2) set fire to my house.   * Actually, I’d prefer wine.

I could also just try just screaming, long and strong. But I’d have to find someplace where my animals won’t hear me, and I don’t risk breaking their hearts, and having them keel over from anxiety.

My options for dealing with this day are not very good. And then I have my list of Happy! Pro-Active! Choices. Ugh. And you know what? I’ll probably work on some of those things on my list. And I’ll just ploddingly, heavily, deliberately, keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Even Farah is dealing with pain today. She was just weaned from her mom.

I’m thinking that I should at least entertain the thought of handing this terrible grief over to my Higher Power. So I’m not carrying the whole load alone. But I’m still so mad that my honey was taken away from me. It just hurts too much. And so, I’ll do what I usually do: I wander around a lot (cause my brain synapses are not really firing properly today), I’ll make some lame attempts to do some work (and maybe I’ll get ¼ of what I usually get done), and I’ll just dig deep – really deep – for the strength to not let this destroy me.

I get mad. I say, “No. You’re not going to flatten me into nothingness today.” And while I’ve never seen myself as someone who uses might to right things, I’ve learned how to fight back, albeit sometimes in a stubborn, childish kind of way. I mean, I feel like I have so few tools against this awfulness. It’s just little me under this oppressive weight of grief.

But I’m going to do my best to not let it crush me today. And if that means getting mad, so be it. Tomorrow, I may be on top of the world. But it’s not tomorrow today.

With Patrick, dancing a tribute to Whitney Houston at the World Music Awards. Dance is such a perfect tribute to life.

What is it with me, and dancing? I love it. And it doesn’t matter what kind – Hip Hop, Greek dancing, Country, ballet… I love it all.

It’s like the feeling, the music, gets into me, and makes it impossible for me not to move (Yes, I’m one of those people that, if you are embarrassed by spontaneous, public displays of movement, you’d better pick a spot to stand far away from me).

Dance is expressive, like a voice, my 2nd language. And I just can’t help myself. The sad thing is, that I don’t dance enough! The dance classes I like are too far away, and going out to clubs was always a challenge (“Look, Martha, they’re going to dance!”), and sadly, it’s even harder now that I’m on my own. But sometimes, I have been known to just put on music, and cut a rug at home. Once when Patrick was ill, I even donned a pair of high heels, streamed a Saturday night Hip Hop station, and went to it. At one point, I turned, and saw Patrick standing in the doorway, smiling affectionately at me. I shrugged a little sheepishly, “I couldn’t help it. I had to.”

Got my ticket, and I'm ready to go.

This past Saturday night, I made the fortuitous decision to delay an errand trip to Santa Fe in order to go to a concert at my local Auditorium. Ozomalti, was playing. Ozomalti!! I just happened to be in town the previous day, and just happened to see a sign advertising the concert. Ozomalti!! They are well-known LA band, that they were playing in this small town was…amazing. And this would prove to be a wonderful night for me. Because…

1)   I love Latin music (Ozomatli is described as urban-Latino-and-beyond). Hell, I love all kinds of music. The only thing that is crossed off the list is musak. You know, the elevator music they use to play? Luckily, that music hard to run into it these days.

Ozomatli, from the study balcony. But I think I scared the macho guy next to me by jumping up & down when the lyrics said, "Jump, jump, jump!"

2) I love (you got it!) DANCING.

Wil-dog & Uli moved into the audience near the end of their concert. Up close & personal.

With my cohorts aka "The Supremes," Anna Marie & Eliza, with…I don't know this band member's name, but we liked his hair.

I was up on my feet the entire concert, boogying with the tunes. And it felt – great. One thing I knew for sure – I need more dancing in my life.

Just recently, a friend asked if I wanted to go out with a group to Salsa dance. Salsa dance??? Would I?? I nodded in a calm, controlled fashion, “That sounds like it’d be fun.” I couldn’t let myself get too excited. If I let myself get excited about the thought of going dancing, let alone Salsa dancing, my DNA would start to tumble and rearrange itself. I’d be straightening myself up, I’d start thinking of what shoes I’m going to wear. What dress. And yes, of course I’d like to go, but it isn’t that easy – I’m solo, and I feel awkward… What if they don’t accept me? What if no one asks me to dance, and I’m forced to embarrass my friends by dancing in the aisles of the dining tables by myself, which would be totally inappropriate in this venue? Worst, what if I have too much fun? “Fun,” that much fun, can still hurt for me.

Going the distance. The concert ended in the lobby! That's Wil-dog above the crowd. Wil, like, yeah, "Will dance for food!" Dancing next to me – a 14 year old kid with a big skateboard

But Saturday night as I’m boogying and ‘sharin’ the love’ with Ozomatli on stage in New Mexico, a confident, happy thought comes to my mind, “Salsa. I’m going to go Salsa dancing!” Do it, girl. Make it happen.

As crazy as I am about dancing, I’ll probably  end up like an much older woman I know who is teased mercilessly about her love for dance. So much so that her family and friends joked that they were going out dancing one evening, so she dressed up, and fell asleep sitting in a chair, waiting for them.

Or, better yet…I’ll be like my mother-in-law, Patsy. Patsy taught dance for over 60 years, and is retired now. But when she moves, she is vital and vibrant. And she rivals any twenty-year old.

Rock on!

Me, on top of a mountain, in Colorado, I think.

My life is full of possibilities. I’m feeling like maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to heal.

I’m feeling things I haven’t felt in over three years now, like, there are things I still care about.

I’m starting to feel like myself again. The person who wants to approach her life with a kind of integrity, beauty, and health. Instead of someone who wants to hide herself in a corner and anesthetize her pain into some kind of oblivion.

I’ve been feeling faith. That thing that I left behind so long ago, the thing that I railed against during life’s unfairness, the thing that so let me down when I was in need.

I feel the beginnings of faith in things I never thought I’d believe in again, ever.

And they are baby steps. But they are huge because they cross a chasm that is so great; one would think you would never dare attempt to cross it again in this lifetime.

But I’m finding a bridge, a bridge that takes me over the loss below to a new way of living. A land that feels like it has sun, where people smile, work has purpose, and life isn’t completely wasted time.

I never thought I’d feel these things again – a new courage, faith. And as well as I feel today, I may feel this good tomorrow. I can do this. I can thrive. And I’m not as limited as I thought.

And in all of this possibility. There is still the one thing I want above all else. I want my Buddy with me.

The thing that is not possible.

The more I think of things I love, the more I discover how we shared them together. A song, a cause, an adventure… I muse about the possibility of moving to Africa. I can be bold; I can do anything, right? And then I remember how we loved that, too – together.

And as I drift further away from having him here with me on this physical plane, the more I realize – how perfect we were for each other.

My best friend, my love, my other half.

It’s hard to think of going on in this life without him.

And when my thoughts take me to my heart’s desire… I see in my mind’s eye a picture of me –

On the outside: blond, strong, caring, capable, and optimistic. And on the inside, I am just a pencil sketch of stick-figure woman, bent over, carrying a crazy hole in her heart.

But I think I can take better care of that woman now. I think I can.

* “Buddy” is my late husband’s, Patrick’s, nickname.