Oct14

retreat

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First time visitors to my home, albeit rare these days, always comment on the same thing: it is colorful. I like color. I like any color, as long as it is green.

This week we’ve been exploring some interior design ideas. But there is some awareness trying to get through this surface study, something much deeper. I am hoping you will come along on this excursion into interior spaces, those we live in – and those we live from. It is windy here, the trees are losing their leaves. The light has changed, the birds are leaving. And something is in the wind…

So I’ve had a little think about the influence of favorite designers, how they differ and what they have in common. And why it matters to me. Like anything in life, I tend to be extraordinarily picky and persnickety. (I’d love to take something lightly, and should that ever happen you will be the first to know). Meanwhile, have I mentioned that I have ADHD? Persnickety is my middle name.

In my fantasy world the designer I would want to work with is likely unavailable (isn’t any man I would ever want a relationship with)?! The interior of his home on Shelter Island is the house that most reminds me of the home I grew up in. I went up and down that stairway a dozen times a day. I could move right in tomorrow and I’m certain my dreams would change. Something would heal deep in my subconscious. I wouldn’t change a thing in this house. Let’s take a quick look:

Alfredo Paredes is the designer Ralph Lauren hired to do his homes. Here he has achieved a comfort level your nervous system will feel long before you understand why. My Mother did that, naturally, and with almost no budget. Our home was filled with old wicker that had belonged to my grandmother. She had inherited the antiques and the rugs and the lamps – even the dishes. They weren’t necessarily good quality. They were practical. Both she and my grandmother had an eye. My Mother shopped at church sales and the Saint Vincent de Paul charity shop decades before vintage became a style. It wasn’t so much about the way things went together as it was about the way things felt. Our house wasn’t fancy, but it was the house everyone gravitated to. It was beautiful and comfortable. Isn’t that the epitome of cottage style, after all?

Just when I’m about to explain how you can’t have a midcentury modern open floor plan cottage, along comes Canadian designer Karen Cole to prove me wrong. It’s easy to see why her lakeside cottage makes her happy:

Now, that’s more like it. This I could also live in, and actually this reminds me more of my current home as it stands, although I’d give my eye teeth for those hexagonal terracotta tile floors.

“Finding your cottage is like Goldilocks finding the chair that is just right. It wraps around you in cozy fashion and all seems right with the world.” – Marianne Agnew

So if we compare these two very different weekend retreats, what have they in common? What are the elements that make them cottages? There is the lovely proximity to the water, should you be so fortunate to have that view. But I have great views of rolling countryside. I’m surrounded by and trees and wildlife. I could walk to the lake but it’s uphill all the way back, so I prefer the short drive. I prefer that to living on the water, actually. I grew up on the water. There is little protection from the harsh elements and a great deal more maintenance. I’m looking for easier these days.

Light plays a big part. Light has so much to do with comfort. Seasonal light, soft light. The colors of nature, an appreciation of natural elements. A mix of old and new. There is a lot of green and greenery. Personally for me, the finishes and surfaces are matte. If something began it’s life shiny, I prefer it tarnished. Everything gets repurposed. Pets and children are welcome on the furniture, nothing is off limits. There is a reading lamp next to every comfy chair. Lots of blankets and quilts. Imperfectly perfect. As the English would say, everything is a little higgledy-piggledy. There we go; couldn’t have said it better myself. But Alfredo Paredes says it best: not self-conscious.

Oct12

a cottage life for me

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What is a cottage life? It seems I’ve been fascinated with cottages since I bought my first design book back in high school – probably in the 60’s. We lived in a cottage, albeit a large one. My young parents had five children while still in their twenties. They needed a lot of room for a little money. The house they purchased was a Cape Cod, built by an architect a hundred years previous to house three generations of his family. It was built as three flats, bermed into a hillside overlooking the Detroit River. My parents turned those three flats into a single family home. Sadly when I look it up now on Zillow it has been turned into many small apartments with most of the original charm removed. What is wrong with people? Never mind…don’t answer that…

When I was looking to move closer to my adult son ten years ago, house hunting on a limited budget with elderly dogs in tow, I ended up in a cottage. This house was built in 1955, by an architect who was a professor at Michigan State University, as a summer getaway. It is a style known as Midcentury Modern.

Now if you were to list every architectural style on planet earth, including igloos and teepees and straw huts, I would list Midcentury Modern as my absolute least favorite style. I don’t dislike it. I abhor it. Believe me, I have studied this genre of architecture since moving here – and I can find little to like amongst the best of it. It is not lost on me that I myself am midcentury modern, born in 1954. And growing up in a highly dysfunctional home might be triggering an adverse reaction. However I like to think it’s much more of an intellectual response as I did study art and architecture in school. I also happened to have gone to school at Kingswood Cranbrook, one of the most artistic architectural communities in the country.

My opinion is considered. I’ve honestly given it a wide berth of time and space. I’ve genuinely tried, okay? It’s just ugly. There is much to like about it’s predecessor, Arts and Crafts style. Think Macintosh, William Morris, Tudor Revival and Craftsman bungalows.

Most of the original style of my house was also removed in earlier renovations, and the one element that I do appreciate about mid-mod remains: the wide roof overhangs. This was quite simply the best house for us, the dogs and I, because of the setting. And remember, I had exhausted the deadline of my government mortgage approval and my exasperated realtor had shown me everything on the market within my area and price range. This was the fourth house I had bid on; the first three sold way over asking price. Most of the houses I could afford were not even livable, let alone move-in ready. Like, they had no heating system or electricity. One house had a toilet in a closet off one side of the kitchen and a shower stall in a closet on the opposite side of the kitchen – and the kitchen sink was where you washed your hands after using the toilet. So…not exaggerating. Almost walking away from this deal twice I had heard in meditation, “you are being placed.” I’m not sure that I will ever know exactly why I was placed here, but it has proven to be a fabulous setting in a desirable location. Tucked behind a sand bluff 400 feet above Lake Michigan, this house will shelter me financially as well as physically.

And so for that reason, as well as my artistic sensibilities, I will do my best to honor the architectural integrity of this house and restore it as I can. I don’t believe in trying to turn a Cape Cod into a Victorian, and likewise will protect the Midcentury Modern elements remaining here. Someone someday will love it for what it is – and isn’t that the best we can all hope for?

In the rural midwest where I live there are a plethora of vacation cottages of all sizes and shapes. But there are few older than the 20th century. And far fewer specific to the Cape Cod or shingle style I covet. I’d have far more choice in the eastern states, even Ohio, western New York or Pennsylvania. I’ve studied. So when I say that I don’t come across many houses I actually like here, I mean it.

I’m looking for original details like wrought iron door hardware and double-hung two over twos. I don’t like ceramic tile; I want old terracotta. IYKYK. I’m looking for a cottage that you could pick up from northern Michigan and set down on Nantucket and it would appear to be right at home. I’m thinking there are may be about 8 of them – if I’m lucky – within a 300 mile radius. But as I said yesterday, I never give up. I’ve had many beautiful homes in my adult life – none I have liked anywhere near as much as the Cape Cod I grew up in, and not one I would buy again as my tastes have developed, or become more defined. Hence this sense that I’d like one last energetic push to find a home that supports my lifestyle as well as my aesthetic.

While I cannot afford to hire a designer, or to do a remodel in anything other than tiny increments, this Midcentury Modern cottage on Lake Michigan has many of the same elements as my current home, including that brick fireplace wall that runs through the middle of the living area and extends outside. Also like the house shown in this video, my house gets battered all winter with gale force winds. In the summer the setting sun hits the large west facing windows and inside it feels like being an ant under a magnifying glass. But I want to explore the possibilities for making my house the best it can be, and then later this week let’s talk about how to support a chosen lifestyle. Because, unlike the owners of this little beach house, I am not on vacation here.

Oct11

yes….and no

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Yes, I missed an opportunity to move to my little dream house. I didn’t even inquire about it. Don’t know what I was waiting for…the owner to call me? To run into someone in the local grocery store and have them introduce us and strike up a random conversation and be invited over….no. Although stranger things have happened. To me. What I was waiting for was the shame to pass. The shame of daring to dream.

No, I didn’t have the cash to plunk down. No, I hadn’t listed my house on the market or looked into being pre-qualified for a mortgage. Hadn’t done any of that. Just sat here hoping that it would still be on the market when I got around to being ready. Not much is moving here in the local real estate market, but I knew intuitively that house wouldn’t last long. It was for sale by owner and probably under priced to sell quickly, which it did. Inquiring would have forced me to learn where I stood financially. I would have found out what my house was worth, what terms might be available, or that it wasn’t doable at all. I don’t know any of that now. I’m kinda in real estate limbo.

The two people I shared my disappointment with said, “oh well, it wasn’t the right house for you. Something else will come along when you’re ready.” Yes, I’ve taken the loss personally. I take everything personally. Let me walk you through that; it will help you understand the neurodiverse people in your life. First of all, no one who really knows me would ever say that to me. I’ve changed so much in the nine years I’ve lived here that the same criteria for house hunting no longer apply. I’ve changed so much…I would no more buy this house now than re-marry my ex. They are both strangers to me. Once madly in love and intimately related, we no longer have anything in common.

But I never would have called about this house ten years ago, also listed for sale by owner. It was way over my price range. My son called the owner of this house and he encouraged me to come look at it. He was flipping it, and out of money. It had two flat areas of lawn immediately outside the doors, as I said in yesterday’s post, for my sweet short-legged old dogs. It would do. And it had lots of potential – a mistake I will never make again. I’m not moving into anything that isn’t ready for paint and wallpaper.

Yes, I am whining. Feeling sorry for myself. This house will never be finished, short of a hundred thousand dollar lottery windfall – and then I wouldn’t bother. And H O M E is waaaay more important to me than most anyone can understand. It’s the reason I started this blog in 2012. A Painterly Home was never intended to be about my psychological interior. And yet, here we are.

Home, any home…like me, is a work in progress. A home is never really done. But I want to be doing the decorative stuff, not replacing the roof and fixing things. Just constantly fixing things. Yesterday I turned on the kitchen faucet and it fell off, spewing water everywhere. Things like that happen almost daily here. But, hey…I have a new roof over my head. Literally. And yes, I am grateful beyond measure.

Yes, I’m good here for now. Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t at least try to purchase the little cottage on Mill Street and begin again. Who knows what I might have learned. No, I’m not giving up. I will never give up on my dreams!

“A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.” – John Barrymore

Yes, I will continue to dream until I’m living in a little cottage. The kitchen sink is under a window facing east – YES! – I am that picky. But it’s actually about lifestyle, and easier maintenance. And creativity and…J O Y. I’m currently on almost an acre of land and most of it is hilly. Hard to mow. And I’d like to be in a town or village. Walkable. Less isolated. I’d love to have some neighbors. This house has served me well; it was the right place at the right time. But life has changed. I’ve changed. We’re supposed to.

I don’t want to compromise my dreams. They can morph; I hope they will…but not become more obscured. I want them to become ever more specific. Otherwise, nothing happens. See, I think that is bullshit that tells us to “let go.” Sure, change and evolve and constantly update your dreams…but never let them go.

“And then I kissed my fear on it’s crooked mouth and whispered farewell old friend, I’m off to meet The Odds and I hear they may favor me without you.” – JK Kennedy

Oct10

a year from now

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There is no logical explanation for why having a new roof would make me feel more grounded, and yet it has. In the past couple of weeks the roof of my house has been replaced. In the process some of the soffit overhanging the front porch was damaged. It was rotten, and someone almost came right through the rotten wood all the way to the ground below. Undaunted, the roofing contractor had to come back once they had more materials and rebuild that part – that corner – of the house. That was just finished this past weekend, and I am now painting it. I have leftover paint from nine years ago when the house was painted, and fortunately it is still good. It’s amazing how much the color on the house has faded.

Only this morning did I realize that it has been almost a year since the first roofing contractor climbed onto the roof, inspected it, and gave me a quote to repair the structure and replace the shingles. A week or so later my cat died. And before I could catch my breath it was winter. I picked the process up again early this spring once the snow had melted off the roof. And my former husband died. I was reeling.

Then it took months of calls and applications to find financial assistance. Meanwhile every rainfall meant more leaks. It was obvious much of the roof was rotten underneath the shingles. The integrity of the structure was compromised. It was the fourth application process that resulted in manageable financing. And a few more weeks before the contractor was secured and the process began, and is just now finished. I completed the paperwork yesterday, October 8th. And I will finish painting the soffit today. Phew….

When I woke at three-thirty this morning I happened to glance over and see the torn envelope the final paperwork had come in. It sparked a thought – the past year, October to October has felt like a decade. The thought I had was, “Just think where I will be a year from now….”

A year from now my copies and receipts from this work will be in the back of the filing cabinet. I’m guessing – and hoping – that I will not have given the roof a thought for months. A solid roof is a given in a maintained house. Let’s get back to taking that for granted here. What else might I take for granted, and what shall I be far more aware of not taking for granted?

A year from now life might look quite different. I will be well into my seventy-fourth year, the same age as this house. I may or may not be living in this house. If I am here, it will have been ten years. I had a signed purchase agreement for this house on October 31st, 2016. It was the longest purchase and moving process I’ve ever experienced; I wouldn’t move until almost four months later, during a raging blizzard, of course. With two beautiful elderly little dogs. The cat would surprise us a year later.

I am not the same person I was then. I am not the same person I was a year ago. I suspect you aren’t either. And I don’t know about you, but I am constantly surprised by the changes. It isn’t that we don’t expect change, and even work toward the changes we desire…but there are constant surprises along the way. There are expectations and there are un-expectations, aren’t there?!

It has taken so long for me just to begin to grow up. I’m paying attention now. From here on out, for however long this dream lasts, I don’t want to take a minute of it for granted. It has taken me so long to learn to love my life.

Perhaps you remember that I had mixed feelings about this house right from the get-go. The long, drawn out process had almost fallen apart twice. Both times I heard in meditation, “you are being placed.” I believe that still, with all my heart. I was placed here. I belong here. For now. That doesn’t mean it’s my “forever” home – a term I abhor, btw. Oh, I get the concept of a lifelong home. I will certainly have an address with a dwelling attached to it on the day of my death, whether I die there or not. My forever home is not on this planet.

And I’ve thought now quite a bit about moving. I bought this house for the dogs! Truly, while there were preferences considered, the one non-negotiable was no stairs for the little old dogs. It’s almost laughable, because this house has lots of stairs, even to get to the front door. But no stairs in and out of the doors to the yard. Easy for short legged creatures.

For this aging five-foot-six creature there isn’t much I like here any more. Perhaps I can also belong somewhere else. But this is not the time to be moving, as winter fast approaches. Maybe in the spring. Maybe. Meanwhile, I want to become better at paying attention right where I’m sitting.

When it looked like the roof might actually get replaced months ago, I began to fantasize about moving yet this year. As most of us would do, I began to scour the market to see what was available. Well…anyone who has played with that idea this past year has had an education. That’s why I used the word fantasize…ha!

And yet, Dr. Ned Hallowell says that ADHD people are eternally optimistic; you cannot keep them down. They never give up. I agree. ADHD superpowers intact – still I dream. Here’s the thing about this: I was placed. I’m not leaving until I am re-placed. That means a lot, and it means a lot of different things all at once. It means that I am more committed than ever to living my life faithfully, as in trusting my intuition – my connection to spirit.

It means that a year from now, I will have had a year of attending to my ADHD and learning to work with it. I didn’t like the medication, so I am back to researching natural ways to best manage my symptoms when they rise. And recognizing them faster, before they completely derail me. They have been invoking fear for the better part of 73 years now. Now I see it in all it’s subtle incarnations. Like, in all the circuitous ways it incapacitates my creativity. A year from now I will have been living a more creative life.

So I found my dream house. But I couldn’t make it happen. I prayed about it endlessly. I did everything I could think of to get the roof done here; the project dragged out for months. I did not call a realtor to find out where I stood; I did not inquire about selling my house as-is; I did not look for a new mortgage or even see what I might qualify for. I did not move a cell of my being toward the goal. I froze in fear. And I am not being re-placed there, or anywhere else at this time. There is a pattern here. It has to be drop-in-my-lap easy, apparent, straightforward – or I don’t even try. THAT, my dears, is straight-up ADHD shame.

After all…who the hell do you think you are?! How dare you be so ungrateful for all you have…and on and on. It happens the voice of poverty sounds an awful lot like my Dad. Who am I to want more?! I have been given a low interest government mortgage that made it possible to buy this house. I have been given a grant for part of the roof and a zero percent interest loan for the rest. For a senior citizen living on social security I have got it pretty darn good. I need to be more grateful. Does this mean I shouldn’t want anything more? Or different? Now that I am more aware of how ADHD shows itself, where it limits and where it frees me, I know that regardless of the outcome, the journey toward self discovery is the only dance in town. And you won’t get anywhere by not taking any risks.

“Action is the antidote to fear.” – Jack Boland

A year from now I pray you are still here, checking in to see what kind of magic shenanigans Susan has gotten herself into. I’ll tell you one thing for sure – it won’t look anything like it does today. Let’s dream together, shall we? Where would you like to be a year from now?

Oct1

one less egg to fry

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We’re having November today, this last day of September. It’s Michigan, so…it is raining and I am grateful. Grateful it isn’t snowing – which feels like it could be just two degrees away. And it is dark. Perfect weather for me these days. I am dark. The sadness does not seem to be subsiding. I guess I thought it would by now. There is definitely a risk that this mood has become habitual; my new default.

It is not quite noon yet and I have managed to tick off two people already. Said the wrong thing the wrong way. It’s a talent and the day is young. It’ll happen again. You could be next.

Meanwhile, I think I’ll just go back to bed and start over later – right after I feed the birds. I’ve been feeding the songbirds again the past few weeks. I had stopped the past couple of years because of the resident bear. The bear has disappeared. That makes me sad. Not that I wanted to get to know the bear personally, but I did feel it had a right to be here, out in the country. Apparently the DNR did not agree. They “relocated” it. I don’t even want to know what that means.

The songbirds bring me joy. And I seem to have little joy these days. I’m having to learn to find joy in new ways. The old sources of my happiness are not working. Birdseed is a small investment, and although money is too tight for comfort, I will find a way to afford it. I feel like I can’t afford not to. I’m taking it out of the grocery budget, which has taken a hit lately anyway. No more pizza or carry out, less organic produce, a few less eggs. Anyway, it’s worth it. I’ve managed to be healthy for 73 years so far; I’ll manage a while longer. Birdsong goes a long way toward bolstering my mental health.

Bird seed also invites mice and squirrels, and they like to find their way inside this time of year. It’s quite nice in here. But the house has had some recent reinforcement, so hopefully it won’t prove a problem. Some of this I’ve done myself in the way of simple tasks like caulk and insulation stuffed in cracks and around doors. I’ve cleared the vegetation away from the foundation and spread gravel. And this past week we got a new roof! Woohoo! Now, that is cause for celebration. Of course, in my little AuDHD brain I had conjured all manner of great and good imaginings about the effect this would have on lightening my stress. It hasn’t come to pass. Yet.

The job is not entirely complete, though it will be soon. As much of the house structure is original to it’s 1955 build, some of the attic was discovered to be rotten. Apparently one of the crew put a foot all the way through the soffit overhanging the porch. It is now hanging in splinters from a gaping hole…talk about inviting critters in! Fortunately no one was injured, the materials have been ordered, and the contractor will return to make the necessary repairs. I am relieved. The agency paying for the roof had a contigency allowance, and they will grant me the few hundred dollars overage to the loan. Phew! I am grateful beyond words.

Somehow I am still sad. I maintain that there is an anxiety that sets in as dusk comes, a kind of “sundowners syndrome” that I believe is related to ADHD; it subsides with darkness. So I try to distract myself from it in the evenings with television series and movies, but it is a teeter-totter of emotions. Binge-watching the new Mackenzie Crook series, Small Prophets, was absolutely delightful. As you would expect. But I made the mistake last night of watching an Irish film, 500 Miles, with one of my favorite actors, Bill Nighy. Loved listening to him with an Irish accent! It’s a beautiful film actually. But so sad. Don’t watch it unless you’re ready for a cathartic wail. Nobody does sad like the Irish. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me…my Irish is showing…

You and I both know this pervasive sadness is straight up grief. It began with the death of my familiar last October. My beloved feline companion died after an infection from a simple medical procedure. It’s been almost a year. Then my former husband died unexpectedly from a fall in April. That has really hit me hard. And then my son’s near death experience this summer. The hits just keep on coming! At any rate, it has never been like me to be so sad for so long. But things are different now. I am different now. I am far more vulnerable. And far more available to it.

I’m not telling you this to garner sympathy – I’m telling you this in hopes that you might not have to go through this same intensity of grief for this extended period of time. I know you can’t avoid loss or grief. I know you can’t control it. But here’s what I wish I would have done sooner: I wish I would have practiced gratitude like my life depended on it. ‘Cause, guess what? It needs to be habitual – our new default. It takes practice, the noticing. So let’s practice, and while we are doing that, I’ll be out back in the shed…

Sep11

walk this way

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“What a mess I have made with nothing but an idea that I am not enough.” – Chloe Frayne

I’m up early in one of my snits again, and don’t see why you shouldn’t have the benefit of my wisdom – insert laughing emoji face here – such as it is. It’s been a busy week. Most of my busy happens inside my skin, but it is happening all the same…although I have also had many external distractions. Wonderful distractions, actually. Those usually show up as friend blessings for me.

But a conversation with a friend a few days ago has been playing in my head, and we all know what ADHD does with those, yes? I believe the word for it is perseverate. Gotta love the English language. I certainly do. And that is what the continuing convo in my pea-pickin’ little brain is on about this morning.

In the middle of a perfectly normal, innocent conversation about the tarot something interesting came up. The tarot be like that. It’s a sparkler to my dynamite. The Devil card came up. It’s one of my favorite cards. It’s always a gift. It’s the card of addiction. And if you think you don’t have any of those, well…you just keep telling yourself that. If you are reading this with human eyes, you are in the cult of addicts. You have been programmed since you were forming in utero. But I digress…

Addictions include our persistent attachment to the way things turn out. “My way or the highway” we used to say. It’s one thing to draw a line in the sand, to have healthy boundaries – as long as you are doing that consciously. Sometimes – just sometimes – we are limiting our perception of possible solutions by our automatic reactions to how things can work. That, and I hate to have to tell you this, is an addiction. A behavior so well practiced that it has formed neuro-pathways in your ever-lovin’ little brain and now your thoughts are not creative – they are conditioned. You are operating on auto-pilot. And the Devil shows up to say, “yoo-hoo! What mess have you gotten yourself into this time?!”

My friend is fairly new to the tarot, and as is often the case, certain cards still cause concern. I like that approach, actually. It’s why I have always loved teaching the tarot. Be a skeptic. Always be a skeptic. That’s a healthy approach to any new learning. As Elizabeth Gilbert wisely says, be just 5% more curious than afraid. Unless it’s a bear.

Okay. So, in aforementioned conversation, we came upon the subject of negative energies, or demons. They scare her. They should. They are nasty buggers, and I don’t care if they are “real” or thought forms or narcissists or an idiot with a semi-automatic or fascists or whatever. Let’s just categorize them as anything that doesn’t feel good. I gots ’em…we all gots ’em. They aren’t going away. This week they are stealing my identity and charging shit I didn’t authorize. And yeah, I’m pissed. On so many levels.

Meanwhile, here is what I told my friend, and apparently need to hear myself: they have all the power you sign over. They have no dominion over you unless you agree to it. Believe when I tell you, I have met them. They are not invisible to me. So, how do we deal with them? WE SPEAK. Directly to their ugly faces. Take a breath. Speak AT them. These words – like you fucking mean it! “GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!”

“IF YOU ARE NOT OF THE LIGHT OF CHRIST, BE GONE NOW!” And to yourself: “I command my spirit into my body in full at this time!” (Thank you, Carolyn Myss)

Repeat after me: I COMMAND MY SPIRIT INTO MY BODY IN FULL AT THIS TIME! And while I’m at it, “Hey Archangel Michael – some help here!”

My friend was taken aback. She had never heard me speak like this before. She knows me as a witch. It never would have occurred to her that I was religious. You could say she was shocked. “Do you have to believe in Christ?” she asked me. I told her demons don’t mess with me anymore. Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight, and don’t call a therapist when an exorcist is needed. Bitch, please. I’m from Detroit.

I am sorry I did not answer her that day. There were others in our conversation who went on talking and asking other questions, and I never got back around to answering. So I’m doing so now. I will share this with her, as I am with you. I think it’s important in our current sit-u-a-tion.

The short answer is no. Christ does not care if you “believe” in him or not. It is not a requirement. I am not Catholic. I was not raised to be religious. Quite frankly, I don’t believe in religion. It’s a cult mentality. It scares me, in a creepy clown horror film sort of way. Because – and please, if you don’t hear anything else I ever say, hear this – Christ is not a Christian. Actually, the man known as Jesus the Christ was a middle-eastern black Jew…but, anyway…also hear this: CHRIST IS GOD. Period. What is God? God is consciousness. Therefore! CHRIST IS CONSCIOUSNESS!

And consciousness is life force. And if you don’t think it’s smarter than you, well, good luck to ya. And newsflash – you need do nothing to access this consciousness. You’re breathing it. When we are suffering, we are practicing denial of our nature. If you need any help with denial, I’m your gal. I have mastered that routine.

SO. In conclusion – why do these words work (and they do)?! Because words are how we exercise power. Words. Language. Would those words work in Farsi? In German? In Bantu? In French? I expect they would…but I don’t know those languages. I speak English.

And, so, when I speak those words, I am speaking a ritual that has been practiced for thousands of years. Don’t reinvent the wheel. Or, as I “heard” this morning in meditation, “who told you life had to be decoded?’

Sep7

’til there was you

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“It was love and I lived in it. And it is grief, and I will carry it.” – Chloe Frayne

No secret to anyone I’ve been in a funk lately. A funky funk. Ugly cry at the least mention of a name or the sight of a dog or cat. Not good company. But I am blessed with friends who simply don’t care how surly or snarky or blubbery I am on any given day. Imagine that. I call them spiritually generous, and I have to confess that I am not so magnanimous. I come up against my own myopic self importance daily. It never ceases to shock and appall.

All this amounts to the only logical explanation: I am melting. I’m like the wicked witch of the west and life doused me with a bucket of water. Unlike the witch, I am melting slowly…taking my sweet time. The “I” I thought I knew so well is disintegrating. And as Anne LaMott so wisely quipped: everything I let go of has claw marks.

One of my generous friends had invited me to a lovely event last week and I cancelled at the last minute, after she’d bought tickets. I had a migraine. Those are coming to the surface again lately as I melt. How did she respond? Well, she asked if she could take me out to brunch later in the week. Those kind of friends. Her voice has never once hinted “what an ass.” Not that her year has been a walk in the park either.

So yesterday we met at a restaurant halfway between us. In she walks with a gift bag, bright tissue paper peeping out the top. A box of new watercolors. Encouragement. Hope. She believes in me. She is the embodiment of grace and I can’t help but wonder what I did to deserve her…must have been good to her in a past life…aka parallel timeline.

We hadn’t seen each other since our road trip to Detroit earlier in the summer. The one where I had her as a captive audience in my speeding car for hours and saw fit to lambast her with my latest attack of trauma-induced rage. Talk about stuck in self pity; I’m the gold standard. And yet, in she walks for whatever comes up, glutton for punishment. Mind you, it was a small public place. Much safer bet on her part. And it wasn’t that I was in a much better headspace these months later. Nope. Still stuck. Still depressed. Still waiting on divine intervention to pull me out of the muckety-muck.

She showed up anyway. I had mentioned this meeting to another friend on the phone early that morning, moaning about how broke I am that I shouldn’t be going out anywhere; I shouldn’t even be spending the gas to get there. Only to discover later that she had sent me brunch money via Paypal. She did say, “you need to get out of the house. Go!” A third friend who I had also cancelled on last week asked me: “What does support look like for you right now?” She wouldn’t have liked my first thought. It was very whiney. Why does anyone even like me?!

My God I am blessed to have these extraordinary women in my life.

And something did shift yesterday morning at breakfast. First of all, the 20 minute drive itself was transformative. It had rained all week, humidity contributing to the headaches. But Saturday was a glorious, sunny morning. I was almost pain free. The M22 drive was through dense green hills, along the Lake Michigan shoreline with shy glimpses of towering dunes off in the distance. Alone, quiet…as if it were all being presented for me. Who could be sad?

My friend has been going through a difficult time, too…don’t think I know anyone who isn’t, actually. She just went through applying for government assistance to clean up her flood damage. Last year a violent hail storm destroyed her homes’ siding and roof. We all seem to be melting, physically and metaphorically. And I asked her point blank, “how do you stay so hopeful? Gracious? How do you do it?” We laughed and we cried over our avocado toast. We got some sideway glances from the waitress. Can’t tell me she’s having an easy time of it. Maybe she was hoping she’d overhear a snippet of wisdom from the two grey hairs at table 6. Good luck, darlin’.

But I am here to tell you something I realized just then – right there in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, nobody that I am. I wouldn’t trade any of this for the world…

Tearing up again, I said to my friend: “For some reason I may never come to understand, I feel as if a thousand million possible timelines all converged at the moment of my birth and somehow I chose exactly the right one.”

She and I will often talk about houses. We love houses, architecture, design. Occasionally we accompany each other to view some new fantasy cottage dream we saw on a real estate site. We are constantly perusing all the listings and “fiz-bo’s” – for sale by owners, hoping to discover some great deal everyone else missed. Hey – it happens. I’ve bought them. Maybe you have. But we finally admitted something to ourselves yesterday: we have spent our lives looking for a place to belong.

Because nothing has ever compared to the home and family we each grew up in. As privileged and magical and fantastic and horrible and hearbreaking and inspiring as it was all at the same time. I admit that I don’t know how to reconcile that. Something waits back there, before I was aware enough to decipher it’s code…something necessary to move forward. Something precious. Something that made me me, and made you you. And I got it, right there that very second. Given the opportunity to do it all differently – I wouldn’t.

Sep1

life on the Holodeck

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It’s been a rough couple of weeks. Could August just be over now?! My son has been going through a health crisis. Apparently he is either super-human or near death and nothing in between. He seems to be getting well, although I don’t think he’s out of the woods yet. Meanwhile, I am reminded that I do not do well with sicknes, mine or others’. I am not a good nurse. Patience is a virtue; it is not one of mine.

I’m quite put out by all this detailed minutia with the blood pressure monitoring and the medications and ongoing tests and doctor visits and updates. Being ill is a lot of work. God Bless the caretakers. I’m a big picture kinda gal…give me the spiritual meaning of all this and I’m good. Gggghhhhhhaaaaaaa. Also meanwhile, I am reminded that this crisis all could have gone south and I might have lost him. Like I could have lost him in his early 20’s to Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. This could be a very different week; one where I am not writing. I am unequivocally uninterested in living without my son in the world. Parents survive losing a child; I can’t imagine how. I don’t care what age they are.

As I spent a week bedside in the hospital I happened across a subject of interest to distract me: the study of telepathy. I’ve been telepathic all my life, with no studies – or even understanding of what was going on. I was well into my 30’s before I realized that everyone wasn’t like this. That everyone did not necessarily know the future or travel out of body or struggle with the concept of time as a fixed point. I lived in a different reality. A more fluid reality – when I was relaxed; healthy; present. When I’m not in crisis.

Interestingly, much of my childhood was spent dealing with crisis’. I think that is probably why I’m so impatient now. I had to be an adult from a very young age, and quite frankly, I’m burnt out. Consequently, I watch a lot of television – something I wasn’t interested in until my 60’s. Although I’m terribly picky about what I watch, and believe me, it isn’t on cable. And I watch a lot of YouTube – the new television. And I’m just as picky there. I’m quite the critic. I find myself envying Siskel and Ebert who invented a lucrative genre to match their particular interest. Wish I’d thought of that. But I digress…

One recent morning I found The Telepathy Tapes. That’s been eye-opening. All my life I have struggled with the concept of being “psychic.” I’ve only this week realized that much of what I have loosely categorized as “psychic ability” is actually telepathy. They are not the same thing. And again, the dominoes of understanding all fell over, including having been autistic decades before anyone heard of it. Everything suddenly makes complete sense about my wildly dysfunctional life.

It has only been in the past few years that I have understood my psychic awareness at all. And how I might “tune in” to knowing something about a complete stranger, or be able to converse with deceased loved ones. I can do both, but they are entirely different functions. So is an out of body experience. But they all come under the umbrella of telepathy.

And this past year, filled with grief, has taught me something I am likewise just beginning to understand and wish to share. I’ve always struggled to understand what most people know as time and space. As I said, those are fluid for me. I’ve had to learn how to stay here now. I’ve had to learn to set boundaries with other beings in other places in order to remain in this lifetime; to say “No. I’m going back” and to name the year. In my “dream.”

I remember decades ago having a heated discussion with someone about the concept of reincarnation. I simply don’t get it. I was going through a series of deep-tissue release treatments with a Buddhist monk who flew into the Detroit suburbs from Washington state. He was probably the most “psychic” person I’d ever met. I had unbelievable experiences during these sessions. I would suddenly be standing on a wooden platform with a noose around my neck, or some such extreme circumstance that came out of nowhere. Mr. Collins knew exactly what I was experiencing and guided me through it and back to my painful body. He told me these were “past life memories,” and I think I laughed out loud at him. Pphhhttttt….past life. I told him he lived in California too long. He asked me why I didn’t believe these experiences were real. Oh, I knew they were real – I just couldn’t wrap my mind around reincarnation because I can’t wrap my mind around the idea that there is a past. Or a future. It’s all now. So was that me standing there? Of course it was. But no more me than the cedar tree out back. Or your dog.

My problem isn’t tuning in to other people, places, times. My problem is tuning out. My problem is staying here. Or it used to be when I was young; I learned those boundaries much sooner than I did the boundaries needed in my family relationships. Somehow I knew I had to, or I wasn’t going to be here long.

Now where does this get us? What the heck is all this for anyway? Well…I just got something valuable about this. Grappling with grief and fear this week has given me a tremendous gift. You know how mediums talk about connecting with our loved ones or ancestors “on the other side”? They are not on the other side – we are.

I miss my cat. Terribly. Some nights I swear I feel him jump up on the bed and curl up against me. I smell my father’s cigar. I hear my mother laugh at me. They are not in some other reality – call it heaven or the bardo – or however you want to explain it. No. They are actually in reality. Period. They are living in the reality of fluid space and time. We call it eternity in our naive attempts to rationale their absence and our grief. No, friends. Where they exist IS reality. You and I are playing on the Holodeck. They’re waiting patiently.

Aug20

we know the fight ain’t fair

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Not all of us here are on vacation. It’s been a tough week. My son finally relented to seeing a doctor Monday after not feeling well for several days – while working construction in the heat and humidity. He could teach the Irish a thing or two about stubbornness. He had a very bumpy ambulance ride that day to the hospital an hour away. Spontaneous pneumothorax: aka collapsed lung. He had ignored it as long as possible – long enough to have his chest cavity fill up with air and put pressure on his heart. He almost blowed himself up.

So I left the house in a hurry and followed the ambulance in to the ER. After emergency surgery to insert a chest tube he was placed in a room on the cardio-pulmonary floor. Inside this behemoth medical complex he was placed in the room directly across the hall from where my former husband died in April, the last place I was sitting vigil. Here’s hoping this bookends the summer of that routine. What is that colloquial idiom…”when it rains it pours?”

Like his father and stepfather before him, my son does not surrender to any perceived weakness. And anything other than super-human strength is weakness. There is no grey area in their world. Pain is for sissies.

It is easy for any of us to hear the stories of our loved ones suffering and think “how did they do it?” Most of our ancestors certainly had hard lives. I don’t know a woman who doesn’t wonder how her Mother did it. Whatever the “it” was: physical pain, emotional upheaval, the relentless stress of daily existence. Endurance. We see it everywhere, even in this enlightened age. We are impressed by it in others; we are oblivious to it in ourselves.

What is wrong with us?! Who decided this was the way? Is this the best we can do for ourselves? We live in the culture of “self care”…as if we know what that means. I doth protest.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, once I knew he was out of the woods and being well cared for by the professionals – once he wasn’t panicked and had some major pain meds in him – I returned home almost 30 hours later. I walked in the house and was reminded that I’d left fish out to thaw the previous morning. Oops. As my Mother would say, “are we having fun yet?”

Look. I’m 72. And a half. “No spring chicken,” as they say. I don’t need to be convinced that life is not easy or pain free. But I vehemently aver that life does not need to be this hard.

My son has no health insurance. He can’t afford it. He will now qualify for emergency Medicaid thankfully. He qualified for it in his 20’s after being diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. It covered all but about twenty thousand dollars of his medical bills. He paid that off over many years. Explain to me one more time why we don’t have free health care in this supposedly affluent country. Don’t tell me the long term stress of that didn’t take a debilitating toll on my son’s physical and mental health. I’ve just observed the effects of him not wanting to incur those expenses again. He tried to work through the discomfort.

But outrageous costs aside, this crisis could likely have been prevented. It’s that phenomena where the ten thousand dollar car engine almost blows up for lack of a forty dollar oil change. We all do it in our own way, stretch our limits just a little further for a little while longer. We Americans are suffering from an existential identity crisis: a shortage of self-awareness. Self awareness sounds silly and pretentious. We are arrogantly defensive about our right to be arrogantly defensive. Is this human nature? Don’t you believe it.

How many of our ailments do you suppose are stress-related? Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying people in other countries with free health care have no stress. I’m saying they have one less stressor. It’s kinda like I’m not saying people in other countries with strict gun laws don’t have as many mass shootings. Oh. Wait…

And while I’m on my soap box (I recently told a friend my soap box covers the entire northern hemisphere) I am also saying that free higher education leads a culture to be less defensive. Maybe a little more self aware…what might that be worth?

Aug16

the language of the heart

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Shortly after moving from the suburbs of Detroit to Traverse City back in the 1980’s, I became friends with a man named Prof Mondol. Prof wrote a novel titled Operation Tibet. It’s based on his service as a fighter pilot in WWII, having served with the Royal Indian Air Force. Published in 1979, I still have the copy he signed and gifted me. He was such a wise man. I regarded him as an unofficial spiritual teacher of sorts and held him in the utmost respect.

Due to fly somewhere on business, I offered to drive him to Detroit Metro Airport one weekend. It was an opportunity to talk for hours, and I could also take my young son to visit his father in Midland along the way. That trip would prove quite enlightening on several levels, although not in any way I could have expected.

After introducing Prof while dropping my son off, my former husband asked if he could speak to me privately for a minute. We walked down his long driveway off M20 just west of Midland. He was very direct with this statement that if I ever dared to expose his son to a black person again (Prof was a native of India), he would see to it that I never saw my son again. Specifically he explained in detail how he would have drugs planted in my car and ensure that I spent my life in prison. “Are we clear on this? Do you understand me?!” he bellowed in a whisper. Ha! As if I could be anything but clear about who I had divorced years prior. While also perfectly clear about being responsible for who I had married…and why he felt so familiar. Ass-holes are familiar to me.

I did not know that day that Prof was dying of cancer, and that trip would be the last time I would spend with him. I did not know what a gift it was. I still remember our conversation, and I have just thought of it again. Triggered recently, of course, by a family member reminding me how different we are; how I have always been, and will always be, an outsider in my family of origin. Because Prof asked me a question that day that would subconsciously affect my entire adult life: “do you believe that God created the universe – or is creating the universe?”

“Creating,” I replied without hesitation. It was an intuitive response. Immediate. From the depths of my being.

For reasons I may never comprehend, road trips seem to provide some precious insights for me. Don’t know what it is about setting a block of time aside and getting away from the house; maybe it’s the open highway…maybe it’s just making myself available to drive for people I love. My natural tendency is to stay home. I really don’t like to leave the house, and often don’t for long periods of time. To say home is sanctuary for me is a gross understatement. Home is renewal; home is life.

Sitting still does not even remotely mean I am not experiencing constant change. I guess I am living an internal life. Nature visits me at my door. The world quite literally revolves around me; I remain still at the center. You might be surprised to know that no two days are ever the same from my chair here in the corner.

But returning home recently I found myself on a detour. Road construction in Michigan happens in summer, when the weather allows. I would be passing so near to my family cemetery that it seemed disrespectful not to stop. And so I did, for the first time in years. It made me feel acutely sad. The grave sites of my parents and brother, among those of multiple generations of ancestors, were overgrown. Rocks were strewn willy-nilly. My parents graves had a headstone; my brothers did not. Later that week I was talking to my sister and mentioned this. She is the only member of my family I have much contact with at all, and then it is infrequent. We live 10 hours drive apart.

A couple of days later she asked if I would be willing to place grave markers if she were to purchase them. I agreed. She researched online and asked if she could ship them directly to me. I agreed. Within another day or so I was informed that the two grave markers had been ordered and were being shipped to her. And that she had enlisted her son, my nephew, to drive up with the markers and meet with the township for placement. He would be overseeing the project and I would be notified when it was done.

It isn’t that I mind being dismissed. Certainly not in this instance. It did startle me for a moment. And reminded me that it has always been this way in my family. I might be temporarily enlisted to participate. But then they will think better of it. As in, better not trust this to Susan. Better not let Susan make a decision. Better to handle it without Susan and then inform her. It’s been this way as long as I can remember. I am a member of the family…but just barely. They scoot over at the last minute and give me a seat on the bench. I’m an adjunct member. By default. By default that we had the same two parents, that is. But I am certainly not an equal.

And in this specific instance, the truth is that I don’t much understand or value the physical need to visit the remains of dead loved ones. They aren’t there. Although it has been documented that all wild animals in nature pause when passing over ground with remains below. It is known that elephants will spend some time stopping on their migrations pausing over long buried remains far under the ground. And they will spend almost twice as long IF those remains are of their own herd.

Which brings me full circle to what this essay is about (finally, eh?) How do the elephants know? What is the built in telepathic sense that all life on earth seems to possess? Why don’t humans understand, acknowledge and value it? What is this telepathy inherent in nature?

For lack of a better word, some would call it psychic. We are psychic beings. Acknowledged or not, we are all living a psychic life. Everything is psychic. God is psychic. You learned “all-knowing.” Same thing: interconnected.

So how am I depressed? Why am I so debilitated by grief? What is death? How can I reconcile the injustice of the world I live in? What is this perceived divide in reality?

We humans seem to have made such a clusterfuck of this ark we were entrusted with. We don’t even know we were placed here. We are in a panic that we will miss our purpose. We’ve been allocated to adjunct caretakers. Our seat on the bench is dwindling. Our time for being trusted has come and gone, and we don’t even know what is happening here.

But I do understand it. My cells get it. My psychic field, my spirit, knows. We are all part of the same God. We are infinitely intelligent. God isn’t done. The universe wasn’t created. It is becoming. We are becoming.