Translator: Tanya Cushman Reviewer: Ellen Maloney
A powerful, hollow-eyed monster,
dark and foreboding,
lived with me for a while.
It lurked in unexpected places:
sometimes in the sunshine
when the flowers bloomed and the air was soft and warm,
sometimes in the crystal moonlight of a cloudless winter night
and sometimes in the chaos and tumult of a storm.
It pounced when I least expected it -
when I was the most unprepared,
the most vulnerable.
It left me feeling defenseless and weak in its presence.
In her book "The Year of Magical Thinking,"
Joan Didion refers to a vortex that held her captive
in the same way that this monster held me.
This vortex, this monster is grief.
I was a freshman in college, just a little bit over 17,
when I met the man who was my soulmate.
We felt that connection immediately.
He was dashing, handsome, charming,
witty, kind, smart,
generous, loving and courageous.
Soon, I began to define myself in terms of our relationship.
I was his girlfriend;
I was his fiancée;
I was his wartime bride;
I was his wife.
We shared an equal marriage,
delighting in watching our three children grow into caring and successful adults,
working to make the world a better place.
We doted on our grandchildren.
He made sure our honeymoon did not end
even in the case of wartime absences and injuries,
child rearing,
job losses, financial challenges
and his increasing medical issues -
first Parkinson's Disease and then an aggressive form of prostate cancer.
I understood that diagnosis.
I heard those doctors say there was no cure,
no chance of remission.
We might have one good year.
He accepted and made his peace with that,
only hoping to avoid lengthy, excruciating pain
as that cancer metastasized to his bones.
I pretended to accept the prognosis,
but in my secret heart of hearts, I was Cleopatra -
you know, the queen of denial.
(Laughter)
I was his nurse.
We did have our good year.
His rapidly declining health and rapidly increasing pain
came after that.
Our children, family and friends supported us in every imaginable way.
Finally, because he wished to remain at home and die there,
we called in hospice.
And on September 24, 2004,
he could take no more, and he passed away.
For a short time, I was caught up in planning his memorial,
writing thank-you notes
and all the things that go with the death of a spouse.
But then the monster moved in.
I was empty and weak;
I could no longer appreciate beauty.
I felt guilty if I enjoyed a bird song or the sweet, salty smell of the marsh.
I walked the beach that we had shared,
lost and desolate.
I wandered through our house, searching for someone who was not there.
The monster waited in every room.
For a while, the monster held sway,
but then, gradually, I tried to fight back.
We had enjoyed do-it-yourself projects around our home -
we were affectionately known by our children as Bailey Co.
So I decided to become a volunteer with Habitat for Humanity.
I read books written by other widows and by experts on the grieving process.
I attended grief group support sessions.
I journalled.
I went on mission trips with my church.
My friends and my family were always close by.
I told one friend that frenetic activity was a great way to avoid that monster,
but without his defining presence, I was floundering.
I needed a new way of determining who I am.
A friend of mine, also a widow,
had gone back to the seminary where her husband had studied.
I thought about going back to graduate school to get another degree,
but that didn't quite seem to be the answer for me.
I was raised on a small family farm in South Carolina.
When I was very young,
Rachel Carson had just written "Silent Spring,"
and my mother forbade the use of DDT or any herbicide on our land.
Because of her and my father,
my love of and appreciation and desire to preserve our natural environment
is practically part of my DNA.
I knew that the VA - the Veterans Administration -
describes Agent Orange
as being a causal factor in a long list of illnesses,
including prostate cancer and Parkinson's Disease.
He had been exposed to Agent Orange in Vietnam,
and I saw the direct link
between that deadly chemical and his death at age 66.
So it seemed natural to me that I do something
to stop the use on American farms of these toxic agrichemicals
that are similar to Agent Orange.
After my parents' deaths,
our land had been leased and planted in cotton and soybeans,
two of the crops on which these chemicals are excessively used.
So, as I became passionate and more informed
about the use of these horrible substances,
I decided to farm organically.
I reclaimed our land from the chemical farmer,
and in doing so, I began to reclaim myself from that monster.
Farming takes me back to my roots.
There is satisfaction and solace in planting, harvesting -
weeds, bugs and all.
I don't even mind that my manicure now is dirt under my fingernails.
I love watching the chickens and the cats and the dogs
and all of their antics.
I find peace and solace in the actions of the cows and the horses.
I enjoy watching my family and my friends
as they learn about the satisfying rhythm of the farm and its animals,
in every day and in every season.
I am a farmer.
That powerful, painful emotion - grief -
that sharp sorrow caused by loss
is a part of our human experience.
Neither inactivity nor frenetic activity
can still that vortex or cage that monster.
Turning deep grief into strong passion and purpose
can give us the momentum to move into a freedom we can celebrate.
And now, in the sunshine
when the flowers bloom and the air is soft and warm,
in the crystal moonlight of a cloudless winter night,
and even in the tumult and chaos of a storm,
I am free to feel joy once more.
(Applause)