Dec5

you can’t steal the things that God has given me

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C’mon…I’m an elderly white woman from the midwest. Descendent of founding fathers. Raised Presbyterian. Well educated. Born into an upper middle class family in a suburb of privilege, I never wanted for anything. I mean, other than a little respect when you get home…

This humble blog has chronicled over a decade of my simple little life. I have shared my story of abuse where no one would suspect it. It’s a universal story. It isn’t special. I have worked through years of accepted and limiting belief systems; I have felt like I’ve overcome lifetimes of fear. I have moved houses three times in this decade since I started this journal. I have been placed high on a hill buffeting against the gales of Lake Michigan. Missing my family of origin. My Mother has never seen this place. My father, my brother, have never been here. I have outlived them. I’ve become estranged from a sister. I’ve buried darling dogs here, and my beloved familiar. I have come a long, long way toward myself. Toward what cannot be dissolved.

Somehow you’ve remained constant when little else has. You’ve witnessed many ups and downs, deep depressions, glorious ah-has. The exchange seems lop-sided; I’ve gotten the better end of this deal. Here’s hoping I have something of value to offer moving forward. I’ll say this again for the record – other than my joints, I feel 24 most days. But now I know what I couldn’t know then.

The past few days here have been daunting. I’m going to try to get out today, but it will be an adventure. We’ve been waiting days for a snow plow. My son has done his best to shovel out enough of the icy boulders left across the bottom of the driveway so that my car might be able to get through. There is a momentary reprieve in the snow, so no time like the present. I haven’t been out of the house in about 12 days. How’s that for a small life?! Even today, I won’t go far. Just the basics – bank, grocery store, library, post office. They are all within a mile loop, but it isn’t always doable. It’s a 30-degree-downhill mile through a tunnel of snow and ice. As I said, daunting. Always with a shovel and kitty litter in the back in case you slide off into a snowbank. At least you can try to extricate yourself, but more likely you’ll hitch a ride home until the tow truck gets around to you.

I am one of a few houses this far out of town (1 mile) that is inhabited year round. This is a summer resort area. My neighbors are from all over the country, but they only come regularly 3 months of the year. Yes, I stay because financially I cannot afford to leave. I don’t have a second home or the means to fly out to warmer climes. But I also love this isolation. The quiet is priceless. They don’t know what they’re missing.

Sitting here now at my kitchen table, I can look south through treetops and see about 2 miles to a distant hill. I can look west down to the neighbor’s closed up house an acre away, and beyond the mature pines to a snowy valley. East I look down through a valley to a stand of pines a few acres away. That farm has a small rustic barn across a field. Deer feed there in the evening, and the occasional bear or bobcat wander through. A large rafter of turkeys are coming and going – no extra charge for the entertainment. A pair of bald eagles has returned to nest somewhere in that stand of trees. They fly overhead daily back and forth to the big lake. I say “big lake” meaning Michigan. There are several smaller lakes nearby.

The scenic 2 lane road I live on is called a highway, but there is almost no traffic this time of year. Before moving here I was taken on an out-of-body flight one night, and shown this highway was built where a native trail had already existed. This isn’t unusual here in Michigan, of course. The natives had found the natural openings in the trees, probably following the organic paths animals frequented. But what I was taught that night was that this natural pathway was also a highway for witches, and for spirits that simply followed their lead. The path of least resistance for centuries, it seems. Okay, I thought, and shrugged, not knowing what that information meant.

Now that I am learning to live in an expanded reality, I realize this is a hilarious metaphor. Take the path of least resistance, Susan. Stop being defensive, angry, or even knowledgeable. Can’t you see there’s more to me than my mistakes? Let the ancestors serve me. They won’t take me somewhere I’m not supposed to be.

Maybe life could be a bit easier. Maybe. Maybe I can begin to enjoy the magic of this. I need something, give me something wonderful.

Dec2

faith

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Let me explain what faith is and how it works. Because your life depends on it. And you are not going to grow, have peace, or live any life worth living until you get honest with yourself about this.

Let’s start with what faith is not: it is not religion. It has little or nothing to do with religion. It is, however, a basic and essential element of your spiritual, emotional, and psychological makeup. It is your connection to God, the divine, life force, intuition – whatever you want to call your inner knowing. There is no inner knowing, or even ability to connect with your authentic self, without faith. It’s the connective tissue of spirit. Without it you’re screwed. You had best become comfortable with it sooner rather than later.

I’m addressing this today because I am in a pissy mood dealing with other people’s lack of faith. No less than four people reached out to me this morning for advice they won’t use. Specifically, half dozen family and friends who want to cry, whine, and vent about the narcissists who treat them poorly. Who undervalue them. But they don’t really want to change anything. They don’t want to let that relationship go, to be precise. They don’t want to quit the job or the marriage. They don’t want to face their fear. They want the other person to get it and change.

Now, lest you think I might be flip or impatient here, let me tell you that I have been listening to the same sob stories for years from these few loved ones. Many years. Maybe decades. Same story, different day. But when I offer some fairly mature, sound advice, they balk – and become immediately defensive. There we go with that defensive shit again. They explane ‘a me…for the umpteenth thousanth time, why they can’t leave. And my mind just tunes it right to the station it is – faithlessness.

I don’t care what you think is the perfectly justifiable reason you cannot leave the narcissist. There is only one reason: lack of faith. And it is costing you your life. Own that decision.

When I decided to leave my narcissistic husband, I had no money. We had less than 5K in equity in our home, which we would split. It wouldn’t cover moving costs. I had no job. No income. Nothing worth selling. No savings. I was 60 and not yet eligible for social security. Nothing. So, your excuse of not enough money doesn’t hold sway with me. I left with nothing. Myself and two dogs to support. NADA. But IT WAS THE RIGHT THING TO DO. I jumped and the net appeared, not the other way around.

There are many, perhaps most, people who would never leave their hated job until securing a replacement. I’m talking to you. I have lost more friends over this issue. I do not want to hear about you hating your job. Quit. Now. STOP MAKING EXCUSES. Pick up your coat and walk out RIGHT THIS MINUTE. Or stop complaining. Do not tell me what your bills are. That is entirely irrelevant.

A (now estranged) old friend, who happens to be a PhD. psychotherapist, would tell me that this is black-and-white thinking, and that it is dangerous. But she remains married to a narcissist, so I will aver that she, in fact, has nothing of value to offer her codependent clientele. She doesn’t walk her talk. She makes excuses. Because…no faith. And then, I must tell you that black-and-white thinking IS THE ONLY APPROPRIATE WAY TO THINK in this culture. In a dualistic environment all energy is divided by good or bad, healthy or unhealthy, right or wrong, love or fear. In a dualistic environment black-and-white thinking is the only appropriate response. If you want to outgrow that limitation, you will have to exercise…guess what?

There is NO justifiable reason to put up with any kind of abuse. And let’s define abuse while we are at it. I adopted this definition from a therapist I met in my 20’s, because I have never been able to prove her wrong: ALL THOUGHT, WORD, AND DEED IS EITHER NURTURING OR ABUSIVE. Period. There is nothing else going on here. Are you being nurtured? No? You walk away. Next question.

If you are rationalizing and adapting to anything that does not serve you well, you are making excuses. You are 100% willing to compromise your health and well-being to accommodate someone else’s agenda. You cannot be free from there. You are enslaved. Whether you physically can’t leave (you are in a body cast) or you are feeling obligated to stay, or guilty, you are not free. And you are willingly participating in a dysfunction that is harmful to everyone concerned.

Faith is your spiritual muscle, and either you exercise it or it atrophies. And just like charity, or compassion, it starts at home. With you. Right now. So cut the crap. Stop waiting for the knight on a white steed, or your one dollar lottery ticket to make you a billionaire. Muster up some courage. Grow a pair. Take a chance on yourself. Show some faith. Don’t look backwards for guidance to chart new territory. Take a leap of faith and then ask God what’s next. “Lead me.” And know that you will get an intuitive hit, an idea, an inkling – and then you will act on it. Do not reason it away. Do it. No matter how insignificant it seems, or how crazy it sounds. Don’t tell anybody. Don’t run it by four people. Do it.

You don’t hear intuition like that? You aren’t just quite sure…? Well, duh. How do you expect to hear God if you won’t trust? The trust comes first. The faith comes first, by it’s very definition. You don’t find the right job until you leave the wrong one. What if you make a mistake? You’ll learn how to be discerning about what is and isn’t intuition. You’re exercising your faith muscle. You are hard-wired for faith. It won’t take long for you to see tangible evidence.

I’m gonna tell you something else that sounds radical: lack of faith is mental illness. Prove me wrong. And let me close with this thought: that this awareness requires my forgiveness, for I, too, lack faith at times. I, too, am just practicing here.

Nov30

the true fact of everything

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Yesterday I talked about overcoming my defensiveness, because it is oppressive and debilitating. It keeps a contrived distance between you and life, between you and everything you want and need to feel safe.

Turns out grief is the key. The only authentic, meaningful way we are going to experience life is to spend it preparing for death. Our culture taught us to think that is obscene. That we deserve to be “happy” all the time. Suffering is optional. It isn’t.

There is a new shift in interior design language (remember, ultimately it will be the artists who save us) – which replaces the term “age in place” with “die in place.” The ultimate goal of all good design is not that you can age in your own home. It’s that you can die there.

We are going to have to include death and loss and grief in our common language. We are going to have to talk about it. Normalize the subject. Befriend that demon. It has to happen. Turns out, it’s the only dance in town. Step right up.

Only now, fast approaching 72, am I realizing that I have carried grief since early in childhood. There were many losses, and none of them were addressed, or “processed,” whatever that means. I acutely remember waking during the night as a child, maybe 6 or 7. I came down the stairs into the living room looking for help. I was afraid and sad. Mimi, my grandmother, was sitting on the sofa, and I ran to her and burst into tears. “What’s wrong, honey?” “I miss Blackie!” Blackie was my Cocker Spaniel who had simply disappeared one day. I was 5 or 6 when I named her, so, don’t judge.

Blackie and I had been sitting on the floor playing fetch. I was rolling the ball to her and teaching her to return it to me. She dropped it near my feet and it rolled under the sofa, and when I bent over to reach for it, she bit me on the face. I doubt she did it out of any malice. She was also reaching for the ball. I just got in the way. She was gone shortly after that. I can look back now, of course, and realize that my parents weren’t going to let that happen again, so she had to go. Where she went I will never know. I don’t remember the story I was told, but I was devastated. And it would never be spoken of again.

Neither would Mimi’s death years later. There was no funeral. Was she cremated? Is she buried somewhere? I’ll never know. The subject was forbidden. Certainly my dear Mother spent her lifetime grieving. Among so many losses, she lost her sister, her closest friend, in a car accident on my 23rd birthday. I never wanted to celebrate my birthday again, but my Mother wasn’t having it. She showed up wherever I was in my life, presents and cake in hand. By God, we were having a party. And Barb was never spoken of. She was my loss, too.

There are too many stories like that to tell. Just in my life alone. I’m sure there are in your life also. How did we get this so wrong? And we wonder why we’re a culture of addicts?!

Nov29

under new management

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Life as we previously knew it…yeah…you feel it. I don’t want to write these days. I don’t want to talk. I seem to switch back and forth between two states: crippling grief, or a vaguely definable altered reality that I can only call pure awe. Joy. But not an excited ecstasy; not bliss. Calm knowing. A peace like nothing I have ever known. Nothing else registers – terrifying grief or cellular peace…for lack of the language to adequately describe it.

After weeks spent in terror and grief and yet surprisingly, not dying, I think I might be coming to terms with what is happening. Maybe. I’m not certain of anything right now. I do trust my intuition, the currency of life.

If I were a betting woman, which I am not – but wait – I am! I am betting my life. I am betting my life that this shift is planetary, it is cosmic, it is being universally experienced by everyone, and it is real. This is happenin‘, baby.

It isn’t aliens. It isn’t astrological. It isn’t your diet causing this wobbly reality. It’s your heart – and I do not mean the organ in your chest: I mean the intelligence in every cell of your body. I mean your spirit. Everything is psychic now. It always has been, but we are now becoming critically aware of that. And as of yet, I do not have enough language skill to explain this phenomena, but I will share with you what I can as I can.

The planet you are currently living on has transmuted. We are now living on the surface of a 5th dimensional being, no longer in a 3rd dimensional reality. In the event that you wish to stay in your comfort zone, you will need to learn to transform gold into lead.

In this mornings’ meditation, I asked for help to keep my heart open. The world is closing in on me. I don’t want to harden back up. That would feel like all this pain had been in vain. How do I remain soft in the face of terror? How do I embrace being defenseless?

The opposite of defensiveness is not safety. It is not vulnerability. Don’t you believe the people selling you vulnerability. They are telling you that vulnerability is somehow noble, or will get you where you need to go. It’s a halfway measure. You can still tether yourself to the past with vulnerability and avoid truth. Don’t settle for that.

The opposite of defensiveness is forgiveness. And I, for one, do not know how to do that. I do not know what forgiveness is. I know some things it is not. It is not acceptance. It does not mean that you accept the people who have wronged you back into your life. It does not mean you accept bad behavior in any form. It doesn’t mean you allow yourself to be treated poorly. That much I know.

Forgiveness is a concept to me; I don’t really know it in practice. I’ve grappled with understanding it for decades, held onto my righteous anger in order to survive, whether I was the recipient of the abuse or the self-righteous abuser. So I can’t fault the usefulness of my defenses; they got me this far. But I didn’t come this far to come this far. I have to take the lead shoes off now. I have to learn to forgive.

This awareness has blindsided me, as awareness often will. Moving forward with this new information will be an adventure; an experiment. I don’t really know where to start. I know that I will have to muster all the curiosity possible. And I know intuition, holy spirit, never leaves us alone here. And so I will begin with prayer: “show me how to forgive.”

“If it is impossible for you to go on as you were before, you must go on as you never have.” – Cheryl Strayed

Nov26

Happy Thanksgiving for all.

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“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Well…almost all. Unless you’re an indigenous native…or gay…or black…or female…or…well, okay, unless you’re anything other than straight white male. And then, depending on your political affiliations, to be determined subject to the current balance of power…or…fuckall…

We children all stood obediently, put our right hand over our heart and repeated after our adoring teacher. In any other setting that ritual would be called indoctrination into a cult. The cult of nationalism has many sub-cults. The cult of school (yay, team), the cult of church. The cult of family. The cult of loyalty, unquestioned and unquestionable. Don’t you dare question. By the time we’re around the age of 10 (too generous? maybe 7?) we are gone. As in, so completely turned around and conditioned that we have no idea who we are. We do know what we stand for – because we have been told. God help us.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in these here United States. Let the celebration of genocide begin. That is not to say I am not grateful, because I truly am. I might be female, but at least I was born into a privileged white family. In a peaceful, free country. Might not have been the same United States you were born into. But let’s be honest, I’ve had many advantages. And much to overcome. I doubt my father would have been an abusive narcissist were he not born where and when he was. He certainly would not have had so many advantages, least of all a culture of protection around him to hide his psychopathy for 82 years. Talk about an invisibility cloak, phew! That worked well.

My mother died of liposarcoma at the age of 69. The oncologists refer to that cancer as “the anger cancer.” I suspect all cancer takes root in anger, but suffice it to say she died of repressed anger. I’ve told many times here about my memorable 16th birthday gift from her. She gave me two books: The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan and The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer. Was she trying to tell me something? Ya think? At least she made an effort. God knows she never had a chance of any freedom for herself. And I was so conditioned by then, I had only a smidgen more.

Had I not been born into privilege, in a relatively safe environment with abundant food and shelter, would I have ever have gained any insight into the underlying dysfunction? I’ll tell you what my family thinks: they think I am blatantly ungrateful. They couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m grateful for all the same things they are, and so much more. I’m just grateful for different reasons.

You see, I think they are living in a deadly and toxic state of denial. I think they are altogether unwilling to press pause on their insecurity button for just a little moment, long enough to consider – not accept, just consider – that they are not actually superior to everyone else. And so, they behave as if they are absolutely terrified of everyone around them all the time. They don’t leave the house without their gun. The world is a very scary place. It’s full of others.

I don’t envy them that position, although I have at times in the past. God knows most days I’d give anything for that previous naivete. For one more day back home with them all around the dining table on Thanksgiving, laughing. I didn’t know those were fields of gold.

I have often envied them the certainty of their convictions when I was questioning my own motives. When I was requiring myself to be as honest with myself as I possibly could bring myself to be about why I thought I might be smart enough to have figured something out.

I’m not. Smarter. I haven’t figured out shit. But I do have certainty of my convictions now. Not because I accepted what I was taught, but precisely because I have questioned it all and decided how to think and what to believe – beyond a shadow of a doubt. Insert belly-laughing emoji here.

What a mess we have created from fear. Of course, I’m neurodivergent, so conservative ass-holes seem to have everything backward from where I stand. And this grief I am going through recently comes with an equal measure of terror. Most of my fitful sleep is composed of my fighting for my life. Nightmares of my family trying to kill me aren’t new, but lately there are trained assassins after me. I’ve moved up in the world. Or they have. Now they can hire it done.

I’ll tell you what: fuck this shit. I’m determined to look the demons right in the eye and beat them at their own game. It’s freedom or nothing. Give me liberty or…

“Being an American means reckoning with a history fraught with violence and injustice. Ignoring that reality in favor of mythology is not only wrong but also dangerous. The dark chapters of American history have just as much to teach us, if not more, than the glorious ones, and most often the two are intertwined.” – Ken Burns

Nov24

think twice…

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“I feel very sane about how crazy I am.” – Carrie Fisher

You know, I write about my grief here for two reasons: it’s the truth of what I am experiencing at this time, and also I want this type of conversation to be normalized. I am out of my mind right now, mentally ill. If I had the flu or cancer or any physical form of illness, it would be socially acceptable to speak about it. Nobody would think anything of it. Let’s make that true as well for mental illnesses. Let’s take the stigma away. Mental illness comes and goes like the common cold, and it does not mean we are insane. Insanity is terminal and requires different treatment all together. Insanity is self-destructive.

There is a common denominator between all illness, of the body or the mind: the goal is health. No one wishes to be unwell. But when we are, we need help from others. Let’s normalize that help, and let’s fund it. The U.S. is, as far as I know, the only “civilized” country in the world that does not provide health care for all it’s citizens. That, to my mind, is obscene disregard for our humanity. But then, you can’t keep people enslaved in poverty if you provide human services. Watch out for those strong, healthy people – they won’t hustle for your minimum wage.

Are you familiar with the Bodhisattva vow? I don’t know much about Buddhism, but I know it is the vow taken by all participants who seek enlightenment, and the short version is this: nobody is finished here until everybody is finished. Didn’t your mother teach you that?!

Nov23

you, stop talking

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My dear therapist has done nothing but listen to me cry for an hour a week four weeks on end now. Poor woman. She’s grossly underpaid. She’s good; to her credit she doesn’t try to talk me out of my sorrow, or fix it. She just listens. My son and a few close friends have been stoically doing the same practice. They are hanging in there with me, “keeping vigil,” as one friend says. I’m not sure I could show as much patience, although what choice do they have, really? I’m uncontrollable. I’m entirely dependent on them right now.

My counselor did say yesterday, “you are grieving all the losses of your life again.” I think she’s onto something there. And more: I am allowing myself to grieve all the losses I perceive, mine and my loved ones. And by loved ones, I mean you, and the trees, and the animals. I am grieving because, as I said to my counselor yesterday, “given the state of things, how could I not?”

Life as we previously knew it is over and we’ve fucking survived, for better or worse. I remember watching the war in Vietnam on my television every night and being shocked that humans could possibly treat other humans that way. Am I the only person who saw screaming naked children running from the bombs? For years to come I lived in the comfort of complacency, believing things couldn’t get any worse, and that surely – surely – we had learned something there. I mean, something more than how to be better at war. How to achieve the goal more efficiently and cheaply, and screw the loss of life. Apparently that’s a renewable commodity.

So here I am, sobbing unconsolably. Pay no mind. I’m grieving the loss of my mother all over again. Being in this horrific blackness, I just want my Mom. I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow that. George Floyd didn’t. You haven’t either, whether you know it or not yet.

If I were to list all the things my subconscious is dredging up these past days, all the harms and grievances I have apparently filed deep inside somewhere over the past 72 years, we’d be here for decades. I’d produce volumes. Suffice it to say that I have not learned how to process grief and anger. I seem to have a lifetime of it stored in every cell of my 187 pound body. I don’t think it will ever be consoled again.

The cruelty of the current political regime in the U.S., and the fact that so many Americans support this, has me right back in my high school mentality of shock. 50 years later. Absolute and utter shock. There is no other way to say it. The blatant disregard for humanity is not something I will ever learn to “process” because I am unequivocally uninterested in processing it. It is wrong.

The way women are treated, and people of any religion other than our own – wrong. There is no other here. The fact that children are being gunned down in school – jesusfuckingchrist. WHO thinks it is alright to live like this?! WHO?!

But let’s pause here a moment and remember something else: I have ALWAYS known right from wrong. I did not need to be taught this awareness. I knew from early childhood that the world does not need guns. Killing has no justification. Neither does the slavery of poverty. None. Period. Do you hear me?! I shall assume that you are also a highly sensitive person or you would not be here reading this blog. So we don’t get it. We’ll never get it. Because it is insane and we are not.

This immense grief that is threatening my way of life, perhaps my life itself, began a month ago with the death of my cat. It’s seems far greater than our brief relationship. But I will not diminish the importance of our devotion. I miss him terribly. I don’t care how silly it sounds that I am grieving the loss of my cat this deeply. He was a magnificent being who graced my life with his companionship.

What happens now? I haven’t a clue. I want the world to change and we both know that isn’t going to happen. I want to find hope among the ruins of my shredded heart. I can’t see it. I want the pressure in my chest to let up. I want to feel love and kindness again. It vaporized. Fuck this “earth school” approach to reconciling trauma. That does not work for me anymore. Don’t come to me, world, with ideas about healing. Not interested in anything about anything.

Do not – I repeat, DO NOT say to me that “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I have been strong for far too long. I surrender. I only want to be softer. If the world eats me whole, so be it.

Maybe don’t talk to me right now. Pray instead. Stop talking and pray as if our lives depend on it.

Nov16

but don’t you believe them

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It’s another spectacular sunny fall day. The leaves have muted from their bold reds and oranges now; they are rusty and golden and pewter. Softer. I wish I felt softer. The past few weeks haven’t made it any easier for me to write, or talk. I’m experiencing some kind of spiritual disintegration; I can’t even explain it. Words fail. Words talk about. This isn’t about anything. This is my life.

I am 4 months shy of being 72 years old. Other than my joints, I feel 24. I’ve always thought that I was a deep thinker and an even deeper feeler. Only recently have I come across information that informs me that I am an HSP, or highly sensitive person. It was my middle-aged son, actually, who shared this with me. He cued up the movie about it saying, “This sure would have been helpful to know decades ago.” No shit. I’m sorry for both of us, as this explains a lot. Never mind I would have been a better Mom.

While this may inform what I am experiencing now, it doesn’t explain the depth of my grief, nor the enormity of my anxiety. C.S. Lewis wisely said, “No one ever told me that grief feels so much like fear.” I’m afraid, plain and simple. Terrified, in fact – like never before. That recent encounter with a huge black bear wasn’t this scary.

When I wake between 2-3am I give myself a good talking to, calm right down, and meditate. The energy doesn’t leave, but the terror does. The fear abates and a profound peace, also new in it’s intensity, fills this cavity I call my chest. It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know what anything means anymore. I don’t know what this is for, this life. I find myself questioning everything. I have never felt so completely and utterly alone, and so entirely part of the trees and the birds and the air and the life. I’m inside of a constant awe. It all feels new, so I am obviously being renewed beyond my previous belief systems. I don’t know about anything at all – but I do know it. I am aware that I am more now, somehow. I am expanding, and I am certain that you are feeling this stretch also, not yet able to define this. I don’t want to define it, because I don’t want to define it away.

So…nothing is the same as it was. I hold onto an expectation that the next few months will unfold me and I will find a new way to be in this new life in this new world. In the meantime, that’s just the way it is.

Nov9

women are done

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With few exceptions family and friends feel as if I have withdrawn from the world, from their lives. It’s true. I don’t reach out much any more. I have (even recently) with a couple of friends, who would likely be shocked to realize that I have simply given up. I inquired as to their health and well being, asked if I could be helpful, maybe even suggested a visit. Invited myself over, or stopped just short of it, not wanting to be rude. While they responded with valid reasoning to postpone an interaction, they also never picked up the phone or texted again…and so, I have left it. I might hear from them again or I might not. I know they’re busy. Life is intense for everyone right now.

What continues to shock me is when I hear from them and they express defensive feelings of being left out of the reporting of my life events. I literally – literally! – maintain a BLOG with regular postings of the goings on in my inner and outer life! And yes, they ALL know about it. They could Google it if they don’t want to subscribe, on any random day or night, and catch up in minutes. I’m living out loud here.

From my perspective they prefer to have their nose out of joint because I didn’t contact them directly, again and again and again. They want me to make an effort to make them feel special. And they ARE! Let’s just say I’m burned out. I imagine everyone is, so there are no hard feelings on my part. I get it.

And right now I am sad. Okay, in fairness, I’ve been sad. For the better part of the past five years, to be honest. But since the pancreatitis a few months ago I have gone off of antidepressant medication. I’m not willing to do anything that will tax my liver and pancreas. I must strive for optimal health as I age.

As the long, grey days of winter begin to set in (it is snowing today) I am also grieving. So please be patient with me as I learn to be patient with myself. I don’t know how to do this.

Let’s choose ourselves over performance. Let’s finally, finally, honor our souls and take a step back and reassess our priorities, our values. We are exhausted. I forgive each and every person who has ever slighted me; I ask the same in return. But let’s make better choices moving forward and choose to be true to ourselves rather than act out of conditioning. I’m not a good girl. I’m not sweet. I’m also not fine anymore, not by a long shot. Sometimes I am not kind, although I’ve only begun to realize the profound importance of that as practice. Thanks for being here.

Nov6

“Yes, I am Bono.”

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“Poetry is language against which we have no defenses,” David Whyte tells us. My life must be poetry. It is a question – one big, fat, ugly, precious question right now. The question that I don’t want to ask, the conversation that I don’t want to have. I cannot turn away. I do not know what is true any more. If I try to understand, nothing seems real. No one describes this surreal distortion better than poet philosopher David Whyte. He’s the only person I can stand to listen to at the moment, for he translates grief back into human language. Everybody else just gets on my nerves. I can’t talk to you right now; I don’t know how.

“Sometimes if you move carefully through the forest, breathing like the ones in the old stories who could cross a shimmering bed of leaves without a sound, you come to a place whose only task is to trouble you with tiny but frightening requests, conceived out of nowhere. But this place, beginning to lead everywhere – requests to stop what you are doing right now and to stop what you are becoming while you do it. ”

Stop. Anything you think you are doing at this moment is a performance of who you think you are. Of who you were. You are not that. You do not know who you are. Stop kidding yourself. Stop.

My brother Ward was so much like my Mom. They were terrible worry-warts. Small, wire-y, tenacious, intelligent and hilarious. They used to tell the rest of us, always tired trying to keep up, “sleep is highly overrated; you can sleep when you’re dead.” Which they are now. Both dead. Bright stars who burned out far too fast. I do not know how to live without them.

But the grief that has me paralyzed today is the loss of my cat, Chewy. Many – maybe most of you, might think, “a cat? Really? And you’re devastated?” Yes. I am. Devastated. It has been almost 2 weeks and still I can hardly breathe. I cry myself to sleep several times a night. My stomach is in knots. My world is in some time warp that does not allow focus. I can’t seem to get a grip on any semblance of reality, of my life as I knew it. I have changed. Life has changed. I don’t know who I am anymore.

This grief has gripped me in it’s talons like nothing I have ever experienced before. I don’t care that it isn’t logical. I don’t care that I cannot scale it into the size of my life. Perhaps I have lost the plot altogether. I’ve certainly lost my sense of sanity…speaking of something that is highly overrated…And yes, I can explain this deep chasm as an accumulated grief. Loss in my past has always been amongst family and many friends, during my work life, still having other pets to care for, while being busy. Even the loss of my last 2 dogs, elderly and ill, was during the pandemic, and about 6 months apart. Everything was surreal then and nobody thought anything of it. This is more understandable if I want to put it into that context – I don’t. I don’t want to allow myself to think my way through this experience. I don’t want to risk losing one iota of this opportunity to be transformed. And so I must feel my way through it. And I do not know how to do this.

Chewy came to me unexpectedly 8 years ago. I was not looking to adopt a cat. He was being displaced and a friend asked me to foster him temporarily. We had 8 years together, approximately 2,920 precious days. I pretty much wasted about 2,918 of them having no idea what a tremendous and powerful gift he was. Do not expect me to diminish his significance in any way. I will not. In many ways I am only beginning to grasp the scope of this loss.

In this fascinating and insightful interview, David Whyte tells the story of standing on a street corner in Dublin waiting for a bus. A young boy was staring, and finally mustered up the courage to ask him, “Are you Bono?” David paused. And in a prescient moment of absolute presence he responded, “Yes, I am Bono.” A meaningful exchange occurs, and David must admit that he does not know the importance of it. Perhaps that brief moment was why he was here, on the planet. We aren’t given to know all. In that split second he was exactly who the child needed him to be. His spirit was entirely available. He could be generous. It mattered.

And that is the essence of my loss. Chewy was entirely available and generous. His life mattered.