Jun29

similar only different

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Who knows how long ago now – decades – my Mother said something that stuck with me. She told me that you don’t have to like someone to love them. Seems simple…like, duh, when I say it now. But it profoundly changed my relationships as a young woman. It gave me so much freedom. I loved my family; I still do – although only a few of us are still here, and we are almost strangers. But I don’t like them. I don’t think I ever did. And I don’t think they liked me.

Among her many wise comments, thrown casually off the cuff in conversations, my Mother also said to me one day, “I know for a fact that all five of my children have the same two parents – and I cannot understand how they can all be so different.” Listen up, Gabor Mate.

We are so different. In our values, in our beliefs, in our view of the world. Learning styles. Lifestyle preferences – everything from sexual orientation to religion to politics to food preferences – in most every way. We even remember the same shared events entirely differently. My parents were married for 27 years; they raised we five children together. Same house, same schools, many of the same teachers. Same neighbors, same family friends. We vacationed together with the same families every summer. Five children. Five entirely different childhoods.

We have very little in common. We are not a lot alike. We look alike. I look so strikingly like my paternal grandmother that I was once stopped on Front Street in downtown Traverse City years ago by a complete stranger who asked if I were related to her. She had long been deceased, and her old friend thought she was seeing a ghost. I have dozens of living relatives in the area but I have never met most of them. To be honest, I don’t know that I would ever want to meet them…can you imagine how different we might be?!

So to say that I have always felt an outsider is a gross understatement. I was, in fact, an outsider in my own world in every way. The only unconditional love I ever felt was from my mother and her mother. I’ll take it. In fact it has been the only – even slight – sense of acceptance I have ever felt, with the exception of my son and less than a handful of close friends over the years. Now, before this registers as sad, let me say that it is a tremendous blessing. I’ve only come to see that as an adult, and increasingly so the past few decades, but it most certainly has always served me well. I do like myself as well as love myself.

I don’t think my parents or siblings ever knew that perspective, or ever will. I think they have spent their lives in self loathing. That isn’t a question any of them would ever think to ask themselves. Not only are they uninterested in any self reflection, but they would object if presented with the idea. Either they are narcissistic, and obviously superior to you for posing such a vapid concept…or, it couldn’t possibly matter less – as long as they have accepted Jesus as their savior. Either way, no need for such silliness. No self examination going on here, thank you very much.

I say that as someone who knows self loathing well. And where it will take you. I say that with the compassion that fills every cell of my being for all time. Nothing – absolutely nothing but humility and respect for the overwhelmingly daunting task of learning to love yourself. Really. Not admiring yourself. I don’t admire myself. I’m not proud. I’m humbled and consumed with gratitude. My life is so, so easy compared to theirs.

It brings me around to this idea of deservedness. We all deserve some happiness. We all deserve peace. Wellbeing. Every sentient life on earth deserves that. It is our nature. It is what the planet is for. But the man-made – quite frankly – cultural teaching of deservedness? Well, that, my friends, is quite the sham. A bill of goods. The founding fathers of the U.S. were very intelligent men. They got a whole helluva lot of it wrong. Just dead wrong. And I am their direct descendent, so perhaps I am uniquely qualified in some way to say this: I would very much like to start this experiment over.

Let’s start with giving the land back to the people it belonged to in the first place, before we “discovered” it. And then – radical notion it seems – let’s see if there is anything we might learn from them. I mean, before we barged in and slaughtered them. Oops.

Here’s an experiment for you – let’s put the descendants of the slaves in power for awhile. You think they’d do worse? I think we whiteys would be damn lucky if they didn’t enslave and slaughter all of us. You want to talk about deserving?! Try that scenario on. Do you think we would deserve forgiveness? Because I don’t. That does not mean that I identify with guilt, because I don’t. That isn’t denial. I forgave myself – I gave my self forth. I changed. It was not easy; in fact I had to sacrifice everything. Every belief – just for starters. Everything I thought was safety. I saw through it. And I wanted real safety – the only safety worth having – the safety of defenselessness. The minute you perceive a need to defend you are not free. You are not safe. That is only one of the reasons you will never see me at a protest march (not because I’ve had an FBI file since 1968 for such things) – what you resist persists. That’s not an Oprah Winfrey euphemism. It’s over simplified truth.

Pardon me if my radical self is showing. I’ll tell you what we all deserve, big time. And NOW. We deserve rest. We deserve peace.

In a recent phone conversation my friend and I were talking about how different the world was when we were growing up. Ya’ know, like the memes. Land lines instead of cell phones, etc…and I remembered getting a letter from the DAR before my 18th birthday. They were courting me. And I had no idea who they really were or what they practiced. There was no internet! I went to the library. Spoke to the librarian – in a respectful manner, because respect. If I remember correctly I also contacted The Detroit News asking for articles to read about them. And drove downtown to pick them up, because no internet. I had to do my homework before I decided hell to the no.

My Mother was disappointed. She did so want to belong. And after all, I had already refused a coming out party at the yacht club. I didn’t attend prom. I just didn’t seem to want to fit in. I was a disappointment. But at a deeper level, she got it. This was the woman who gave me two books for my birthday that year (my father gave me a car): The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer, and The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan. She wasn’t getting free, but maybe her daughter had a fighting chance. And the television was our downfall, America….hahhahaaaa….and in case you think I might lose any of my radical nature in my old age? Nah, I love AI. Bring it on. The human race needs a smarter ruler. We can only hope it gets so smart that it becomes sentient by next week.

Jun28

healing is as healing does

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4:10 PM; Saturday, June 27th. I’ve just awakened from a much needed nap. A couple of hours ago I took Tylenol and magnesium tincture and laid down with my feet elevated. I’m sore. I’ve been pushing all week to catch up on the yard work, which I’m about a month behind on. It’s daunting, much like the snow in winter. It needs to be tackled almost daily to stay on top of it.

I’ve divided my lawn into 5 sections. Each section is approximately the size of your yard if you’re a normal person. Which is to say, if you live in a town or suburb where you have a front yard that extends out about 20 feet to the street, and a back yard that extends out to meet your neighbor’s fence. This is not that.

This property is almost an acre – and it is the smallest property in this rural area. Three sides of it is on a 30 to 45 degree angle – all lawn. Who thought that was a good idea?! I always thought I would plant the hillsides with ground cover. Or lavender. The budget has never existed for that.

So, I can only mow one section of my yard on any given day due to the fact that I am old and decrepit. And trimming along the fence and the flower beds with the string trimmer is another day for each section. So 10 days to catch up. I’m six days in and if I live another 4 days I will keep you posted.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (this is a mid-century modern ranch), I’m thinking it may be time to move to something more easily maintained. Maybe I’ve got one more move in me. I’ll also keep you posted about this process. I am one of the many aging seniors who are house rich and cash poor. I don’t know if I can afford to move. I do know that I can no longer afford to pay a lawn service. Hence, the new diet and exercise program: eat less and mow more. Because, if you know me at all, I am the kinda gal who willfully turns adversity into advantage. Go team.

At this moment in time, I am tentatively beginning to love my life again. It was a long, dark winter. It was, quite literally, a dark and stormy night. It just happened to last six months. But sunlight and warmth and nature are true healers, and today I sit here looking out over the rolling hills and treetops through dappled sunlight and feel like I won the lottery. I feel like I can breathe again.

I miss my dogs, who I originally bought this house for. I miss the friends I’ve lost. I miss my family. I miss my cat. I’ve begun to consider that I might adopt again. I miss the joy they fill the house with. Maybe I could open my heart once more. I also miss all the many lives I’ve already lived in this lifetime. I’m not the same person anymore. But here’s the thing about unhappiness: after a while it stops being interesting.

Jun20

…all your life

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Saturday 6/20, early a.m…very, very early…

The souvenir heart says, “It’s never too late to fly.” These days life feels like I am less of a blackbird, however, and more of a Phoenix. Rising from the ashes of burnt bridges. Many, many burnt bridges. I look back over my life and think I must have flown – or run swiftly – over those bridges and took one last, gigantic leap at the end of every naive effort. Don’t look back now. Somehow I landed on my feet again and again and again.

Let’s face it, I had a lot of support. Was it despite my arrogance or because of my determination? Best not ask. We all have our noble indignities. We still believe we can best this process of constant change, of the body’s disintegration. We will outrun it as long as we can. What choice have we as we age? Every morning I say “Thank you” before my feet hit the floor. I stand before I walk, make sure both feet are firmly under me. I am aware of my surroundings before I move forward. I don’t take anything for granted anymore, not even my uprightness.

As many of you will know, I have always had a strong affinity to birds. They show up to me and for me. Years ago driving home from work, I came around a curve and had to brake suddenly for an eagle in the road. Standing in the middle of my lane, looking up at me – perhaps first in fright, but once I had come to a full stop it just stood there. Neither of us moved an iota. It was a back country lane and traffic was unlikely, so I closed my eyes and told it that it was safe now. I would wait with it. I also knew the local rapture rescue to call for emergency help if needed. It stared in at me for a few minutes, then turned in the direction I was headed and took flight, bidding me to follow. Had it just needed a moment? Or did it come to delay me on my way so that I might proceed safely? I certainly proceeded more wide awake.

You might all be tired of hearing me go on about how I’ve been grieving. It has been deeper and lasted longer than I have ever known, and at almost 73 years old, I’m not sure it will ever let go. I won’t ever be the same, that’s for sure. Sitting at my kitchen table Tuesday I was missing my cat. So I spoke to him.Yes, out loud. I told him that I’ve been thinking about moving. “What would you think? I’d have to leave your bones buried out back on the hill.” “I’m not using them.” Hahahaaa…at least he didn’t say “idiot.” At that exact second a hummingbird flew at high speed – right up to the window in front of my face. Like it had been dispatched and told to hurry! I actually jumped up, it came so fast out of nowhere. It stopped an inch from smacking into the window and hovered, looking in at me.

So I Googled “hummingbird spiritual meaning.” “Hummingbirds symbolize joy, resilience, and the sweetness of life. Because they can hover, fly backward, and move with agile precision, they are symbols of emotional healing after periods of grief or stress.” The cat was telling me to move on.

All your life…you were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Jun16

it’s all a stretch these days…

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Monday, 6/15: Good morning. I’m gonna change up the format here a bit. Since it’s basically always been a journal, let’s go with a journal format, beginning with the date…but all bets are off. Consistency is not a virtue I claim. I aspire. I’m…ya’ know, aspirational. It is a gorgeous summer morning. It is sunny and cool. Fifty-three degrees. It reminds me why we live in Michigan. But Michigan is not for everyone…it’s an “if you know, you know” kinda thing.

Detroit is the same. What an absolutely magnificent city. But if you know, you know. As a young woman I couldn’t wait to leave, but it was never because I didn’t love Detroit. It was because I wanted to live away from my highly dysfunctional family. Well, I wanted to raise my son away from them. And while I am very happy to be living “up north,” I will always miss Detroit. You can take the girl out of the city…

Growing up in Detroit was one of those “right place, right time” things. Born in the early 50’s, I became a teen in the 60’s. Detroit was the U.S. center of the British Invasion of rock in the 1960’s. And I was there for it. I was a sponge for it. I was growing up in a musical family, and as I’ve often said, my parents were beatniks in the 50’s who became hippies in the 60’s. I was the flower child.

I’ve also talked here a lot about being a privileged white girl in Detroit in the 1960’s. And having a conscience, thankyougod. Let’s just say, it shaped me. It would not make my life easier. Naive and 13, we were on one of our many summer getaways with our big-ass Chris Craft cabin cruiser to Georgian Bay, Canada. If you know, you know. It is one of the most spectacular places on the planet. We would use the depth sounder to check how deep the water was at our mooring, often off the beach of some deserted little island. We would watch the fish swimming thirty feet below us as we scooped up a pitcher of water to make orange juice or coffee. We had somehow stumbled into heaven, never suspecting we might not be worthy.

Bored in Tobermory harbor one stormy afternoon my younger sister and I walked into town, where I bought my first-ever record album. Not only did Joni Mitchell sing like no one I’d ever heard, but she had also drawn the jacket cover. Song to a Seagull caught my eye because it looked a lot like my fantastical drawings. Little did I know my life would never be the same.

Fast forward (hahahaa!) another six decades and here we are, you and I…talkin’ trash and livin’ our best life. Have I mentioned how grateful I am? I would try to articulate this sentiment, but then I would turn to a mush puddle and not be able to type through the tears. That’s me these days. Hence, the month-long hiatus since my last post.

Life continues to unfold and reveal it’s many complex layers. I can barely keep up. Is this progress? Who TF knows…it feels like a loop. A loop of grief and addiction with brief glimpses of joy. Is that joy? Would I recognize joy if it bit me?! Today I sit here in dappled sunlight looking out through the trees in a state of absolute delight and possibility. Yesterday I was sick and in a state of dread. Did I mention that consistency and I are not natural companions?

I had big plans for yesterday. A long ta-da list. But I woke with a migraine. Nauseous. Stiff joints and sore muscles. Where did this come from? I had been working outdoors in the garden the previous day, and I had been stung. It could just as easily have been caused by something I ate that day. The raspberries I put on my yogurt were just beginning to mold but I couldn’t stand to lose them. I live on that edge between blissful wellness and painful incapacity. It’s called chronic illness for a reason. So yesterday was a lost day. I sipped electrolytes, ate tiny bites of dry sourdough toast and stayed in my dark, cool bedroom.

But these days I have a job. I hate having a job. Oh, I love my work. It’s the schedule I resent. Having to be up and out of the house (preferably dressed) and then drive 40 minutes to get anywhere. Regardless of how I feel. Take Sumatriptan if necessary, but show up. Because consistency counts. I was loving retirement. I will again. Life threw another curve ball that I was ill prepared for, and now I face a new challenge: find a new way to earn income. So you’re 72?! Buckle up, buttercup. You live in Michigan, and Michigan is part of the good ol’ USofA….

Honestly, this is very likely good for me, being forced to get dressed and leave the house on a schedule. With the inconsistency of ADHD, and it’s sister component lack of discipline, a little imposed structure usually serves me well. It stimulates creativity and I am forced to overcome my preference to hide; forced to engage with others. As in people. Ugh. Present company excepted.

During this past month, I’ve been overwhelmed with grief and…well, despair – for lack of a better word. I guess I must admit despair. It has been a long 6 months of winter filled with grief. I am depressed. Getting out and driving through gorgeous countryside will do me good. I have reconnected with a dear old friend, who gave me work immediately without question when I called for help. And I’ve also met some very nice people. I certainly cannot complain. How fortunate I am when I get out of my own way. Honestly, are we all our own worst enemies?

I’m beginning to engage with life again. One new rabbit hole I’d love to share here is a vlog I’ve recently discovered on YouTube. I love YouTube…so way better than television. Apparently so does everyone else. In fact, in her first year on YT, Angie has rapidly grown to be one of the most popular channels. There are reasons obvious to me, but I will let you see for yourself.

Confession: I found this vlog because I am researching lifestyle channels, thinking about starting one myself. Sort of a live-action adjunct to this blog. There are aspects of Angie’s vlog I would copy – like wearing sunglasses indoors, of course. And her vulnerability, which I would much rather disguise – but what are the chances?! However, mine would also be quite different. For starters, I’m 12 years older. And far snarkier. Hard as I might try, I am not British. My vlog would have to include my metaphysical studies and spiritual experiences to be authentic. We all know I’ve never had a humble opinion in my life. But there are many things I admire about Angie, not the least of which is her consistency. I could learn something.

I have a long list of ideas…I would love your ideas. Let’s share our curiosity, in hopes that you and I can continue this conversation about life and loss and hope and inconsistency and beauty and all things human. Thank you for being here.

So here is my offering for today: Rare Birds, for those of us growing older, expanding rather than shrinking. For real people, highly sensitive people, who take life as it comes with all it’s foibles and inconsistencies. People like us, who keep on keeping on. Meanwhile, I’m off to my local hardware store to buy myself a garden fork…I hope Angie would be proud.

May17

waving truce against the moon

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“Let the beauty you love be what you do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” – Rumi

It’s time for some true confessions. The less I see of others sharing their vulnerabilities, the more I wanna. Because I’m also seeing some others who are sharing and it looks en-lighten-ing. I want that. I want to be lighter. I will always be a moth to the flame of freedom. All freedom – physical, financial, emotional, spiritual. I’m in my 70’s, and let’s just be frank here – I’m on the approach toward my death. I don’t feel like I’m going to die anytime soon, but the truth is we never know. Yes, I’ve lost much younger loved ones suddenly. But the recent shock of losing my former husband is a different kind of lesson.

He died unexpectedly last month at the age of 88. That sounds reasonably old. But there were things to be considered: firstly, he was the youngest of 5 children. His mother died of complications from an auto accident. But his father and four siblings all lived well into their 90’s. He lost his brother last October at the age of 97. They still golfed and played bridge twice a week with friends. They were active. He fully expected to live into his 90’s. And his death was “unexpected” because he died as the result of a fall, not of old age or natural causes. I had spoken to him a few days prior about getting together for lunch soon. I fully expected that to happen.

But this is really about the fear it triggered. We had been together for over 30 years when we were younger. He was not ever willing to discuss any arrangements for his death, natural or otherwise. He simply refused to consider it. When we were first married, I used to goad him that he thought he was the first immortal human. We had teenage children. His income was 10 times mine. There was no life insurance or any kind of financial arrangement in the event of his death. He was the most stubborn person I have ever known, and believe me, that is saying something in an Irish family.

So when he died in April he left nothing. His retirement pension stopped, which means so did my alimony. The State of Michigan is richer now; they won’t be paying him any longer. His new car has been repossessed by the bank. His 4 daughters inherited a savings account just large enough to cater his memorial service luncheon. Gratefully, I will receive his social security survivor benefits (but no longer receive mine. Social security pays whichever is greater, not both.) My life has just gotten exponentially harder. I’m 72 now and scrambling to figure out how I’ll support myself. It didn’t need to be this way, and of course, it’s absolutely perfect. It must be. I just don’t get to know why.

Yes, I had tried again and again to reason with him, even recently; to put some kind of a plan in place. He refused. In fact he laughed at me. He wasn’t going to die anytime soon. I thought he was unreasonable. He thought I was ridiculous. I guess we deserved each other. I miss him anyway.

If you’ve been here long, you know I’ve been grieving the loss of my beloved cat since October 20th. Just a couple days later my brother-in-law died, and a friend’s sweet dog whom I also loved. Three deaths all at once. And you also know that Chewy, my cat, was coming to me in my dreams and meditations. Twice he said very clearly, “do not make any decisions before spring.” When I heard this the second time, I asked what he meant by spring and he replied, “March 30th.” So…March 30th came, and while I did not feel any better, I was watching and listening for a change. Dick died 2 days later.

Since about the age of 65 I have worked at overcoming one of my biggest fears. It had incapacitated my creativity all of my life. My big, fat, ugly fear that people (especially loved ones) would think I am crazy. Insane type crazy. If you’ve read past blog posts, you know that I have truly healed these fears. All of my life my family and my two husbands had told me I was crazy. So I hid. It was blatant manipulation, what we now call gaslighting. It worked brilliantly. Kept me right where they wanted me – at their service.

Only today am I remembering that decades ago I went for a psych evaluation with a leading psychiatrist at U of M. I had asked my primary care physician to refer me because the antidepressants weren’t working. I thought maybe I needed something stronger. During that hour the psychiatrist said to me, “Well, you are not crazy, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He recommended that I not take stronger medication, but work toward improving my “circumstances.” In other words, pull your head out of your ass, Susan, and stop letting yourself be manipulated. Maybe stop living with addicts. My “over-developed sense of responsibility,” also professionally diagnosed, would get the better of me for a few more decades. Speaking of being stubborn…

So today I find myself back in survival mode, plagued by fears. And I wish to be free of them. I will begin with what I know – I will speak them. Name them. Expose them to the light. When Siddhartha Gautama (the Buddha) met evil on the road to enlightenment, he named it Architect. The Architect who would design his demise. The Architect of self doubt. He turned to face anything or anyone he felt this threat from. He would address them, and he would say, “I see you, Architect.”

Architect, I am scared of dying – not of death itself, but of suffering. Of lingering, being a burden to my only child. Let me be clear, I’m not afraid of pain. I know how to remain whole inside myself when my body is paralyzed with pain. When the morphine isn’t working and you can’t cry out for help. No one wants to learn that, but I have. I have walked trembling and yet confidently through hell and smelled the breath of huge, huge demons. Hoping their chains held; knowing that if not, at least my death would happen swiftly.

I’m afraid of losing the loved ones I have still, but that comes with aging. That’s just the way this works. I’m afraid of poverty. Of not having any control over where I live. Of becoming less and less free as I age. I’m afraid of this grief…of never finding joy again. That scares me most of all. I don’t know how to do grief. I guess I’m learning.

As I’ve said here before, my small group of friends have been patient with me. I went to lunch last week with one friend. It was a make up date because I had messed up our previous plans; I put them in my calendar wrong. Patience…while I am obviously being reset by life. Or as I say, “I’ll be with you in a moment” – my own euphemism for “I am not functioning.” Anyway, after a lovely meal we sat in her living room while I cried, consumed in self pity as I am these days. She reassured me as sweetly as I hope I would do for her. “There’s comfort in melancholy when there’s no need to explain…”

Suddenly she noticed a blue bunting on the bird feeder outside the window. Next thing we knew a spectacular oriole flew in. Brilliant orange, like it was lit up. Then a red cardinal. A bright yellow finch. It was surreal. Surreal is my default notification that God is hangin’ close. The veil is thin, and I am being blessed. I might have dismissed the significance of that if I were afraid you’d think me crazy. If that is crazy, sign me up for more.

“So now I am returning to myself these things that you and I suppressed.”

May9

Leslie Higgins is my spirit animal

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I know, I know – you probably think I’m cool like Trent Crimm. Refined and sophisticated like Rebecca Felton. Humble and magnanimous like Ted Lasso. But no. No, I’m actually awkward and nerdy and a lot more like Higgins than any other character in this series.

For instance, I am apparently the last remaining human with a television to watch the show. Not that it hasn’t been recommended by everyone I know. But recently, in a group of highly respected women creatives, I realized that I couldn’t hold my own in the conversations any longer if I don’t get the references. I’d have to catch up to keep up.

When my sister ran a dementia care home years ago I volunteered part time. I learned about the common occurrence of a symptom called sundowners. Certain activities were planned around and after dinner because the patients became anxious as the sun was setting. I immediately thought, “I have that.” Not just because I am somewhat of a hypochondriac, but because I recognized that I have been that way all my life. Or as far back as I can remember anyway. I become anxious and sad at sunset. My nervous system relaxes once dark has fallen, but for an hour or more every evening I am not myself. I’m guessing that the medical community became aware of this phenomenon in Alzheimer’s patients, and that no one has noticed yet that it happens to many of us without the dreadful disease. I’m guessing it is common in people with ADHD, or like me, AuDHD. But medicine lags behind our cultural experience…so, so far behind. And once again, I am never consulted.

So. I do what any self respecting intelligent person would do – I plan for my shortcomings. I find things to distract me, especially intellectually, after dinner. My preference is entertainment. I’m usually ready to sit down to dinner and then not get up again for a few hours. By 6 or so in the evening I am spent – physically as well as mentally and emotionally.

But oooohhh-eeee….there is a sad, S A D shortage of suitable entertainment available. My standards…once again…too high. Or so I’m told. Well meaning friends have made all manner of piss poor recommendations, from Game of Thrones to Outlander to Gilmore Girls. Jesusmaryjoseph. (Yes, that is all one word.) What, in the ever-loving….?!

No. No, people. Here are the criteria: INTELLIGENT. Which means exceptionally written. With intelligent, believable characters. Who actually behave like the intelligent, MATURE humans we are being asked to accept. Lorelai Gilmore’s neurosis might have been cute when she was 22, but now she just needs therapy. She’s tedious and annoying and if she were your cousin you’d have slapped her already.

Also, good writing must be well acted. Have extraordinary cinematography and preferably spectacular scenery. Fabulous clothing doesn’t hurt my feelings. It needs an awesome sound track. And most importantly – the context must be redemptive. What does that mean? It’s simple: no human evil. Occasional mental illness expected, psychopathy not so much. I love murder mysteries. Cannot stomach crime dramas. Not the same thing at all. Jesus, I don’t believe we are having this conversation again…but, okay, here goes.

Murder mysteries solve murders done by distraught, misguided people experiencing temporary insanity. Crimes of passion where somebody losses their shit and probably didn’t really mean to do it. Bad decisions are made and unfortunate mistakes follow. And, well, honestly – the victim usually had it coming, didn’t he? There is compassion to spare in these intricate stories of deeply flawed people. Nothing is pre-meditated. No serial killers. No middle-of-the-night creepy stalkers in dark alleys. Don’t frigin’ scare me. Instead, explain how this happened and resolve that merciful justice shall be carried out so I can have a good night’s sleep tonight. And merciful justice is why I do not watch period dramas. There was nothing merciful or just about the past. It’s exactly why we don’t like fascists now. Anybody with half a brain has seen the long term effects of that psycho shitstorm played out. Move along smartly.

I have a confession here. I resisted watching Ted Lasso for, well, years. The story revolves around a football team. I do not simply dislike team sports, I abhor them. They require a certain cult mentality that I avoid like the plague that it is. Large cultural groups are conditioned (I hear groomed) over decades of sanctioned violent dysfunction. Codependence abounds unchecked. Copious amounts of alcohol seem to be involved. Something about this entire subculture is just not right. Is it just me?!

But last week someone said to me, “watch Ted Lasso. It will restore your faith in humanity.”And I was desperate for some entertaining distraction from the crushing grief I have not yet come through. I was desperate for my faith in humanity to be restored. And…this series delivered. Five stars. Do recommend. I wish there were 100 seasons to binge watch; that would get me through to gardening season. To Richmond!

May8

how to find your life’s purpose

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Finally, once and for all, I am going to tell you what the purpose of your life is. In some way I feel uniquely qualified. Not because I am old. Not because I am psychic, although I am. And not because I am a tarot card reader, although I practice that also. If you’ve been here long, you know I have been reading the tarot since given a deck in high school…so, going on 60 years. If they’ve taught me anything, it’s how to listen.

Tarot card readers, and psychics, by the way, are simply unqualified counselors. I used to shy away from the younger ones for this reason, wondering how much life experience they could bring to the conversation. I don’t do that anymore. Young people, if paying attention, are sometimes less influenced by the world around them and more present. Young people like Rob Bell, Kyle Cease, Steven Bright, just to name a few readily available to you on social media.

When you make yourself available to new acquaintances under any guise of offering wisdom (as if…) you will find that many people come searching to know their purpose. And so I have been a curious student of this question for decades. And I actually do think i might have some wisdom to offer.

I can absolutely tell you your purpose, but first I must tell you what it is not. Then I will reveal what it is. And then, thirdly, I need to tell you something you need to know that is even more important than your purpose. There is one more important thing.

Firstly, your purpose is not a job. You think you know that. But when you start seeking to know why you are here, you will undoubtedly try to condense your life’s purpose into actionable knowledge – into something to do. It’s the human way, and hence the third point of this soliloquy. So it is important to know the difference between purpose and right livelihood.

Right livelihood is a purposeful way to work, to earn a living, to support yourself. It’s right because it fits you. Like a glove. But there is not one glove for every purpose. You don’t shovel snow in the same gloves you garden in. And so there is never A singular right livelihood for each of us, or for all the stages of life. Right livelihood changes and grows with you.

There are things you love to do and are naturally adept at. Those are passions, and talents. Some are genetic. Some are environmental. All are interesting and fulfilling, even if they do require study and practice. Often those will lead you to right livelihood, to a vocation that is satisfying and contributing. But these are not your purpose.

You – yes, you are a spy. You are a spy for God. For consciousness. If you were born human your purpose is to observe life on the planet earth and report your findings. Specifically to the Akashic Record Department, but simply say to consciousness. Feel free to share generously what you observe. We will all take what we can use. Your purpose is to live in service to the life on the planet, to the living planet itself. So that we may all continue to evolve life here. And developing your skills of observation takes tremendous practice. It will consume your entire life. And it will not come easy.

Here is the third – and most important – thing you need to know: you have been sold a bill of goods about purpose. It’s a cult. You were groomed and inducted before you knew what was going on. You were subconsciously and intentionally indoctrinated into a cultural belief system that convinced you that you had better not miss your purpose. You better find that purpose or you might waste your life. Nothing could be further from the truth. Quite literally, that program was designed to keep you from the truth. It was designed to keep you in slavery. To hustle to survive. You make other people a lot of money that way.

As Gloria Steinem so wisely said, “The truth will set you free. But first it will piss you off.” She understood the assignment.

So…how, exactly do we train to be a spy for God? We pay attention. And we don’t really have much precedence for that, so we must first train ourselves to withdraw our attention from distraction. That means developing a constant daily routine of saying yes and no as consciously as we can. Our days are packed full of choices and decisions. We learn to say no to some, yes to others. We eventually learn to pay attention to our gut instincts. To our intuition. Intuition: the voice of God inside of us. We have to learn to pay attention to our bodies, our internal barometer.

I can use my recent bear encounter as a metaphor. “They” say never to run from a bear. You will not outrun it. You are instructed to stand tall, arms stretched upward and make noise. If it’s a black bear, anyway. I did not do this. I bolted. Of course, I was only several feet from my front door (up a flight of stairs). I did not think. What is thought?! I had no thoughts. I was all reaction. I took those stairs two at a time. I was in the house behind a dead-bolted steel door before it occurred to me that A) I might want to react differently, and B) I took those stairs two at a time! I normally drag my painful creaking knee up one stair at a time ever-so slowly, moaning the entire climb. Would I react differently on a trail through the woods with nowhere to hide? M a y b e…

Another “they” says it is good practice to allow for a little space in your thoughts before reacting. You know…learn to respond rather than react. Maybe next lifetime. Maybe if I’m face to face with a bully. Nah – who am I kidding?! Haaahhahahaaa……

Apr22

all will be revealed

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“I am a traveler of time and space, to be where I have been.” – Led Zeppelin, Kashmir.

In this morning’s waking dream, I was Mae. I was Irish, but living in France. The entire dream was in French and I understood every word. Susan knows not a bit of French, just fyi. I knew my full name was actually Maeve. I was older, perhaps middle aged. Although I never saw myself in present time, because I never walked past a mirror in the dream. However, my friend and former colleague was showing me a short video she had recorded years prior. We were watching snippets of video she had recorded during a work picnic. I was maybe 20 years younger. Petite. Short red hair, and a gorgeous smile. Fresh out of college. I had only started working at the design firm a few weeks before. I felt awkward and insecure, not yet sure of myself. Not yet sure that I belonged here or would be accepted.

The dream went on for quite some time as we reminisced and delighted in our youth and naivete. I’ll spare you all the details but to say that it was a happy experience and I woke refreshed. Where do these things come from?! They always surprise me. I say they because this is not unusual for me. This has always been my very interesting dream life. The only difficulty with my diverse nighttime experiences are translating them into some sort of application to my mundane, every day life when I am awake!

Remember the television show called Quantum Leap? I remember watching and thinking, “oh, well, big deal – I’ve always done that.” I would be well into my 30’s before I realized that it was not everyone’s normal.

So, I have quite literally experienced being every race, age, gender, and I have not always been in human form. I have been to the past and the future. I have been innocent; I have been guilty. I have rescued a baby from a well in Africa. Pulled people out of a plane crash in Washington, D.C. and a derailed train in Ohio, both accidents verified the following morning. I’ve been hung for treason in medieval Europe; felt the wooden trap door fall away from under my feet and woke up. I’ve written music and worked on special effects for Warner Brothers movies. Just not as Susan.

I woke from one such out-of-body experience having been in an earthquake where the people around me looked Asian. I was feeling shocked when I walked out of the bedroom into the living room that morning – and told my husband and our house guest that I had just been in an earthquake and we had better turn on the television to see what was going on. There had just been a major earthquake in Kobe, Japan. I then had to explain to our guest that this is my usual nighttime routine, through no fault or plan of my own. He was a bit flabbergasted until decades of such stories later, shared in confidence.

Now, I must tell you two things: I have absolutely no clue what this means. I have never understood it or known what to do with the experiences or information. I don’t know why it happens. And secondly, I do not believe for a moment that this phenomenon makes me special or unique. Or insane. It just is. I will say that I am always very grateful to wake from these “dreams” in my own little bed, as me. So far, so good.

Until now, here, I have seldom shared any of this with anyone other than my closest friends. And hopefully they don’t think I’m nuts. Or maybe they don’t care. I’ve only shared it when it has happened, and understandably, it freaks some people out. Like my houseguest who I did not know well, but who watched the experience unfold before him.

So…conclusions? Time travel is real, that much I know. No machine or external device needed. I have also concluded from 7 decades of these surreal experiences that we are all connected. I do not believe in past lives. I would describe it this way: there is no time or space, actually. Just molecules in constant motion. It all exists at once in the mind of God. To me, God is consciousness, and could not be anything else. Absolutely unknowable to any one individual.

I have worked hard all of my dream life, since I can remember. This morning, having just met Mae, I had an odd thought about all of this: what if we work here, on earth, and when our body dies we get to retire? Maybe that’s what heaven is. Maybe it’s retirement. I have visited loved ones in heaven. I have been visited here by angels; I have no doubt of their existence in both spirit and physical form, as needed to complete the task at hand.

When I was little my Mom used to say, “I’m just rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.” She was referring to housework. She was a lonely housewife with five children – six if you include my father, who, btw, never did grow up. She had her hands full, but she never complained. Somehow she managed eloquently (although she did drink!) One of her most endearing attributes is that she never lost her sense of humor. I would be much older when I would respond to her by saying “yes, and it matters how the chairs are placed.” Because it does. Everything matters. I just don’t know why. Yet.

My darling brother Ward claimed to be an atheist, to which I would reply, “Well then, you just haven’t heard enough rock and roll music.” He’s retired now, walking those streets of gold…

Apr21

with every mistake…

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“If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.” -unknown

My dear friend (who we affectionately refer to as Ramda) came to visit. My son nicknamed her that because we revere her wisdom. We live about an hours’ drive apart, on a good weather day. Since we are located in the NW region of Michigans’ lower peninsula, good weather days are random. In the winter months – November through April – the roads are going to be treacherous many days and impassible some. But it is spring now, so better. Unfortunately, this entire northern half of the lower peninsula has been experiencing record flooding. My friend got tired of me putting off a visit. I’m grieving and having panic attacks lately. Long distance driving is a daunting obstacle.

So she decided to come here. And then all hell broke loose in the form of thunderstorms and high winds. Many roads were washed away. The people who live in Traverse City have been told that the repairs will likely take six months or more. The damage is widespread, and given the weather this time of year, could potentially get worse. Ramda had to set a long, circuitous route and go north into the Leelanau peninsula and then come south to me. But she insisted, and I am grateful for her wisdom and her company.

As it happened, the sun was shining that day. We bundled ourselves against the forty degree temperatures and ventured to the nearby lighthouse for a beach walk. I pocketed only a few stones. As with most everything in my current life, I have refined my collecting habits. Now I only collect rocks shaped like hearts, or pink granite with a green line running through it. They grace my windowsills and sinks. These are the same beach stones that caught my eye as a child along these beaches. I’d tell you I’m in my second childhood, but anyone who has known me long will tell you – I never left my first. And it’s never too late to have a happy childhood.

She and I sat on the bench and had our usual deep, loving conversation…and some good ol’ belly laughs. Somehow we got on the subject of language itself, one of my favorite topics. We started talking about recent buzzwords that have entered the cultural vernacular. Words like envisage. And conversate. Soon we were cracking ourselves up using those in sentences…you kinda had to be there. But really, why? I see; I visualize. Feel free to envisage yourself right along…I talk. I don’t conversate. Whatever.

Anyway (which does not, nor has ever had, an S on the end, people) we had a lovely visit. These early spring days are glorious here. Exactly what I need for healing. I am more and more acutely aware of the collateral beauty. You know what that is, right? It’s the inherent beauty in all life, in being alive on the planet earth exactly where you are now. For reasons beyond me, it is far more noticeable when you are in a state of grief. I want to learn to be aware of it always. I want to learn to live with heightened senses, from inside a state of grace and compassion. To miss my lost beloveds and to see and hear them in the earth as it comes alive again.

My son and I have decided that we love living here near the water. Our little village has everything we need. When I was looking for a place to move I wanted to be off the beaten track (not in the drop-by zone) but with the most important amenities: a library, a post office, and a grocery store. I also got a wonderful local bookstore and several restaurants, and a six-bed hospital with world class medical care. But we do live on, as we call it, “the edge of the world.”

This is a destination, not a pass-through place. It is our own thin place. And it is just right for us.

Apr16

“Seal the blast doors!”

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When my son was little I used to say, “you can fool some of the people all of the time, or all of the people some of the time…but you can’t fool me.” It was straight-up manipulative programming. I’m not proud. Not only was I living in survival mode myself, but I had noooooo clue how to parent a child, let alone a sensitive genius. I set out to convince him that he had best not try to pull the wool over my eyes. I would not be fooled. Maybe not the best way to build trust.

In truth I had pulled just about every trick in the book with my own parents. I’m not sure they were actually fooled, but they allowed me to get away with anything and everything. They subconsciously taught me to think that I was really smart…hahhahaa. I was certainly creative getting myself into all manner of sticky situations. God, my guardian angels, always had my back. Like the night of my 18th birthday when I drove to the tattoo parlor to get a tattoo – and the building was literally on fire! As it happened, I got my first tattoo for my 40th birthday, and I’m glad I waited for a number of reasons. Never mind in the year 1972 that industry wasn’t regulated, so…eewww.

Fast forward decades and I am no more savvy than I was at 18…or, am I? No smarter, perhaps, except to know what I don’t know. But oh…way, way more trusting. Exponentially more faith. Faith in my intuition, imagination, God. Those are all the same things, just by the by…and somewhere after midnight, in my wildest fantasies…

The original Star Wars came out in 1977, the year before my son was born. There were no streaming services then. I insisted my husband take me to the theater, and I remember that it was only showing at one theater in the northern Detroit suburbs, in Southfield. The next day I made him take me back with my teenage sister in tow this time. My heart knew something truthful was happening and I was going to glean every drop of inspiration I could while it was available. It was life-changing, like watching The Beatles on Ed Sullivan as a kid. A bold new world of possibilities was opening up.

When my son was old enough – 7 or 8, maybe – we watched Star Wars together. And I told him something I believed to be true then, and still now: “you must become a Jedi to survive in the world of your future.” He is, indeed, a Jedi for his time. I encouraged his intuition despite not understanding how it worked.

Recently I lost one of my heroes, my former husband. I say that with a whole clusterfuck of mixed emotions. He needed to be my hero to feel worthy as a man – and thus, he needed me to remain in the role of damsel-in-distress. It took years for me to become cognizant of that unhealthy dynamic; more years to extricate myself once I had tried and failed to change it. But I never did overcome the need for him in my corner when I was truly in trouble. And he never abandoned me. He might not have had any emotional intelligence (he was an addict, after all), but he was always at the end of the phone in an actual emergency. That was his love language. For example, when my son was diagnosed with lymphoma, he showed up at the door unannounced, dropping off bags of groceries. He did his best with what he knew, also a product of his own dysfunctional upbringing. I’m learning to forgive him. And me.

And so here I am, grieving again and still. I’ve had another hero step in since his death, a dear friend. She’s the rare kind of friend who doesn’t wait to be asked if you need help. She knew what I needed and she just showed up. And it wasn’t the first time she’s done that. Somehow she has always believed in me. There are no words to describe my gratitude.

We all need heroes from time to time. All of a sudden they are everywhere I look. Fear shall not prevail. One of them is my aforementioned friend. Four of them just circled the moon in Artemis II. My son is my hero, just not in a way I expected. He never fails to inspire me, nor to make me laugh and feel safe and loved. He tells me emphatically that I am magic when I least believe it.

One of the women friends I admire most just bought us tickets to see the story of Mary Oliver at the City Opera House next month, a wonderful evening to look forward to. Mary Oliver is one of my heroes, as is Anne LaMott, who wrote:

“I was reminded of the Four Immutable Laws of Spirit: Whoever is present are the right people. Whenever it begins is the right time. Whatever happened is the only thing that could have happened. When it’s over, it’s over.”

Help shows up in many ways. Having faith is recognizing that you are, and always have been, blessed and highly favored. God, the angels, show up in many forms. Sometimes they are the loved ones who have always got your back. Sometimes they frustrate the ever-loving bejesus out of you. This dawn it was simply birds singing me awake. So I mean this, and I say it to you with all my heart: May the force be with you.