Ahh, autumn — if only you could be three Octobers long.
It’s the season when I feel most myself, when everything in me exhales and comes home again. The air turns crisp, the light softens, and I feel grounded, creative, alive. For me, autumn has always felt like the true beginning of the year — a season of renewal and quiet gratitude, when life stirs in the heart again.
This year, that renewal came with the gift of a new home — my son’s home, though he’s graciously invited me to join the adventure. From the first moment he saw it, he knew it was his. And slowly, I watched it become ours — room by room.
I’ve cherished every “first” in this house. Planting star jasmine along the fence and watching the tendrils reach for the sun. Checking on the evergreens we planted out beyond the fence, as if they were children growing overnight. Dreaming of a table on the deck before we even had one inside. Sitting in the garden at day’s end, sketching plans for citrus trees, camellias, wildflowers — and yes, an oyster pit, for the laughter and stories that will rise with the smoke. With every small act of tending, this place has become not just home, but healing.
I’ve often wondered what it means to move forward after decades of marriage — after losing the one who was both compass and companion.
He was the love of my life, my greatest encourager, the steady voice who believed in me even when I doubted myself. I’ve never spoken much about our life together, but maybe I should — because someone, somewhere, sitting quietly with their own loss, might need to hear this.
There are no shortcuts through a season of brutal loss, no bypassing the hard emotions that come with it. If we don’t deal with excruciating pain on our terms, it will return later on its own terms.
Widowhood is like being a stranger in your own life. I went through familiar motions, but felt detached, as if watching my life from the outside. For a long time, I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. My old life seemed like a dream I might have imagined. Did it really happen? Even when I tried to reinvent myself — becoming a real estate agent, chasing a new purpose — I often wondered, Who is she?
It’s more than absence; it’s learning to become a new person while carrying the old one inside.
Our life together was far from perfect. We were opposites in every way — he, the eternal optimist, the dreamer friends called “the Joybringer”; I, the planner, the worrier, the one who made sure the bills were paid. I could never understand his fearlessness — how he leapt before looking and somehow always landed on his feet. But that same daring spirit, I now see, was what first drew me to him.
He may have been the first Walter Mitty, lover of fantasy and possibilities, believer in elaborate adventures and triumphs. He was one who never met a stranger, who found life an exhilarating adventure - so much so at times I felt surely I must be living in a dream.
He lived as though doing the impossible was a calling — and somehow, he always answered. There were annoyances, of course: his habit of oversharing, his absolute lack of secrets, but he had an endless ability to pull our feet from the fire when things went wrong. “Dad will fix it,” my daughter used to say — and she was always right. He could fix almost anything, except time.
Now, years later, I practice gratitude the way he practiced joy. I’ve learned that gratitude isn’t about ignoring pain — it’s about noticing beauty beside it. Grief has taught me to hold both at once: joy and sorrow, laughter and struggle. He taught me to step out when I didn’t want to and follow my passions - do it anyway; to look for wonder and victory in life’s smallest moments.
I still remember when people told me, “Why bother writing a cookbook? There are millions out there already.” But he looked at me and said, “Do it anyway. Write it your way.” And so I did. Two hundred and fifty thousand books later, I know now that he was right — courage and curiosity will always take you farther than fear ever could.
In his absence, the differences that once defined us have melted away, and only love remains. I’m learning to live fully again — to be present, to savor, to trust that there are still chapters left to write.
My legacy isn’t about survival.
It’s about living with possibility, connection, adventure, and courage.
With Love and Gratitude,
xo - Pat
