living a small, slow life in a small, slow town and loving every minute of it...please join my journal about aging, overcoming c-PTSD, living with chronic illness, and being creative in spite of it all.
Yesterday I wrote about my former husband, and about how sad I was, and still am, that we could never seem to be friends. If I have learned anything at all in this life, please God, it’s how hard friendship is. And how priceless. David Whyte says it best, of course, in his poem on the subject: “The ultimate touchstone of friendship is not improvement, neither of the self, nor of the other. The ultimate touchstone of friendship is witness.”
My former husband would often admonish me for being so hard on him, for holding him to such high standards, and implore me to simply “accept me as I am.” He could never understand why that was difficult, and quite frankly, neither could I. Neither could I. It’s lonely at the top.
I understand it a lot more in retrospect. And I now believe that my standards were not too high, but in fact, too low. That if I had been emotionally intelligent, more mature, more self aware – healthier – I would never have entered into a marriage with someone that I was not, in fact, friends with. I no longer think marriage is necessarily hard. But friendship certainly is.
There wasn’t anything wrong or bad about either of us; we were just too different. We had different values. We wanted different things from life. And that has also proven true in many of my friendships, once we really got to know each other. There are few friends still around these days, but how precious they are to me.
One of the hardest qualities to come to terms with in both myself and others is an unwavering commitment to personal growth. I want someone to call me on my shit. Not because they aren’t getting their way, but because they recognize that I am making unhealthy compromises. Tell me when I’m making decisions based on need rather than strength. Help me become more self aware, and then when I know better, help me to do better. Lead me back to the high road whenever possible. Remind me of who I am.
“The point of a marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust.” – Rainer Maria Rilke
Any chance you might have an issue with authority? If so, I’m just sure we can be friends. To say I am resistant to suggestion would be an understatement, and yet I am constantly seeking advise, input, more input, ideas, opinions and help from any number of sources.
My dearest friends will attest that I directly – and regularly – say to them, “Tell me what to do.” They think I’m funny. They have known me long enough to know that telling me what to do is futile. Even when I ask, there’s maybe a 30% chance of follow through. Maybe.
Now let us not confuse my fierce independence with any remote understanding of healthy boundaries. Those close to me have also seen me make absolutely stupid decisions just for the sake of being contrary. What can I say? Growing up is hard to do…
Just this week I had a bit of a tete-a-tete with my past. My ex called and wanted to talk. This would generally send me into a tailspin of anxiety. What was he up to?
We met a few days later for breakfast. It was quite pleasant. He is 17 years older than me and has had some serious health challenges. So, he is face to face with his own mortality. That is humbling. But it was just a few hours later that he called again. Strange. This time he barked at me to pull up a website on my computer. He wanted me to look at a car for sale. He had asked about my Jeep at breakfast. The previous time we met for a “catch up” the Jeep had limped into the restaurant parking lot squealing and lurching. It’s the old car I had from our marriage, now 13 years dissolved. It’s on it’s last leg before the scrap heap and I’ve been trying to figure out how I will afford to replace it.
When he asked about it I had quipped, “It’s running well. It’s about time to think about looking for a car.” Ever-so nonchalant. Pardon me, but I’ve had more than 30 years with him to learn to generalize my answers. I give out very little information. It’s not so much a conversation as an interrogation, or a relationship as a transaction. He is never without an agenda.
Sure enough, several hours later and he’s found me a car. Mind you, we had not discussed anything about my looking for a car. No details were asked for or volunteered, no direct inquiries, no interest feigned. This was entirely based on his assumptions. He found me a car. Another Jeep (I had not been considering buying another Jeep. For one thing, I can barely climb in and out of this one anymore.)
This is how that second phone call went: “Hi. What’s up?” I was taken by surprise. “Get to your computer! Look at this website!” I had no idea what this was about until my laptop had booted up and I asked for the website name. It was a car dealership. “Look at this Jeep! If you’re interested I could go drive that for you tomorrow.” As if I don’t drive…or he has any mechanical prowess. But I do forget sometimes how utterly incompetent I am. He sounded like he was on speed (what is in those Manhattans?) He desperately needs a project, and he needs it to be me.
Wait. What? S L O W the heck down…why are you directing me to look at a car? Well…he could “help me” buy that. Sadly, I’ve also got 30+ years experience knowing that this is going to be a long, convoluted process that will somehow end up costing me sleep, peace of mind, money, and self respect. I graciously declined. I have learned a little over the decades. For better or worse, I have learned to be my own hero.
I thanked him for his concern and generosity. I don’t want to generate any animosity. I’m careful not to invite the repercussions of his wrath. I am struggling with my health also, but unlike my ex, I am also struggling financially. There was no room for partnership in that marriage, nor fairness in the divorce. I receive spousal support (the new word for alimony) which is a small fraction of his income and 90% of mine. Less than law would allow, but as much as I was willing to fight for. I wanted out intact. Okay, that’s not true – I wanted out alive. It was too late for intact.
My former husband is not a bad man. He is charming, highly intelligent and extremely like-able. There are many wonderful things about him, and I wish I knew how to have him in my life. He is what is known as a vulnerable narcissist. He would do anything to help. It’s just gonna have a few little almost invisible strings attached…kinda like walking into a spiderweb. Sticky.
Now with the hard-earned wisdom of distance, all of this simply makes me enormously sad. We are both alone in our old age. But I know my true value. Not only will he never know mine; he will never know his own. We are all so very fragile. As Maira is inclined to notice, we are all striving, and we are all heroic.
Maurice Sendack died in May of 2012 at the age of 84. What an extraordinary ordinary life he lived. I was 10 years old when he published Where the Wild Things Are, but I would not learn of it until raising my own child over two decades later. And I did not really begin to fully appreciate him until recently.
He lost many of his closest family members in the Holocaust. He spent 50 years with his beloved partner, Eugene. But what strikes me as most remarkable is to hear him talk about how much he loved his life, how he valued the love he had and the work he enjoyed. A simple man, a simple life, a sacred life. As he says here, a transcendent life. May we all find that we do not need to be “earth shakingly important…” and have the peace and clarity to clear the decks, and to learn not to take ourselves so seriously.
It’s just after 11 a.m. I’m beginning my second morning. It starts around ten or eleven, depending on how long I’ve been up. I wake most days between four and five. I have water, my chewable vitamins, and I write. First, Morning Pages according to Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. I made that contract with myself in 1997 and I intend to honor it the rest of my days. Then, I might write on the blog here, sometimes one or two posts, and schedule them for publication. While I’m writing I make coffee and I might throw in a load of wash. Or, I might get back into bed instead of making it…have a “napitation.” That’s where I start out meditating and end up napping. By this time it’s getting to be nine or ten-ish. Later if I napped for a couple of hours. And so begins my “second morning.” My day is a success and it isn’t even noon yet!
This morning when I woke from my nap I went out and mowed the back lawn before jumping in the shower. Now it is raining – that soft, cool rain that smells of cedar and wood fire; that only comes leeside of the lake tucked among the dunes. There is nothing better than rural Michigan in the summer.
To say that I am enjoying retirement would be a gross understatement. I have never loved my life more. It has taken seventy years to find “the house of my belonging.” But I am also struggling. It is a different stress than when I was younger, married then divorced, married again and then divorced again, raising a son through all the chaos, working a job or two, keeping up a home – always far, far too busy, living a “scramble” life.
On these sumptuous mornings I am filled with gratitude. I want nothing more than to listen intently to the sparrow listing it’s recent discoveries as if the inventory is of utmost importance, the cat obliviously asleep at my side. I wouldn’t trade a moment of this for the world.
The foxgloves are dropping their purple hats just as the daisies are about to announce the certainty of summer. They aver: don’t look back. But I do look back. I am full of every day I have known so far, and I don’t want to forget a second of it. I seem to have lived a thousand lifetimes in this one. I cherish them all.
I miss my Mother terribly. She’s been gone 21 years now, stolen from me far too young by Liposarcoma, the “angry cancer,” the cancer of the soft, fatty tissue of the abdomen – though she barely weighed a hundred pounds at 5 foot 5. I never once saw her get angry in her life. Apparently she kept it hidden in her deepest recesses.
She had more reason to get angry than you or I ever will. Anger seemed to hurt her. I would watch her face contort into grief when faced with the atrocities of her life. I cannot hold a candle to her level of understanding or forgiveness, let alone her unending gratitude. Faced with the same abuse, I’d have committed murder and been writing this from a prison cell. I don’t have a fraction of her strength.
My son was her first grandchild, and she was obnoxious with the photos. She carried a “Brag Book” in her purse, and I’d introduce her to friends or coworkers saying, “This is my Mother, Doris – would you like to see the photos of her grandchild now or later?” The sun rose and set with him. Many of my happiest memories are because of her, and my son and I know we were so privileged to have had her. She was a remarkable person, and the world is undeniably a better place because she lived.
But growing up we five children teased her mercilessly. Not least of which about her singing. She taught herself to play the guitar and she practiced, usually alone in her room at night, and sung quietly. In the decades to follow she would often look at me lovingly and sing a line or two…if I could, I’d sing to you:
In my efforts of late to get myself organized and live more simply, I’ve been cleaning out old notebooks. I came across a journal entry from years ago explaining polychronic time. I just this week discovered that many cultures around the world, especially indigenous cultures, still practice polychronic time. Here in our western society, and the (eh-hmmm) more advanced cultures, we live according to monochronic time.
Anthropologists tell us that cultures such as the Inuits of Alaska, that use polychronic time, tend to value relationships over schedules. They understand that time is unpredictable. For instance, they might go to work according to the tides, so their schedule changes regularly. The scientific term chronemics is used to describe how time is perceived; it’s considered a sub-genre in the study of nonverbal communication.
This is fascinating to me. Let’s just say that I have always had a loosey-goosey relationship with time. Oh – I mean fluid…yeah – that’s the word I’m looking for. Full disclosure, I often time travel while my body is sleeping, but I’ve had it happen during meditation, and even during bodywork sessions. I don’t know how it happens, don’t know why, don’t care. I visit other countries, even other planets, telepathically communicate with other species. Do we all do this as children and I’ve just never outgrown it? No idea. I do know, sure as I am sitting at the keyboard writing this today, that time and gravity are the same thing. Or intricately interdependent. Blur the limitations of one and you blur the limitations of both. Time and space are false concepts we were indoctrinated with here in this cult where we temporarily reside. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.
It was a psychologist I was seeing in my 30’s who taught me the difference between this phenomena and fantasy. Because I will close my eyes in one place and time and open them in another, fully present, all 5 senses fully intact. It took years of practice not to panic when this happened, so that I could stay with the experience and not jolt myself back. The first thing I learned was to look down at my hands and focus on my breath. This allowed for a few seconds at least to listen, smell, maybe look around if I felt it was safe to do so, and try to grasp the situation I was in. This was precluded, of course, by the belief that it must be happening for a reason. I had slipped into another time and space for a reason, somehow to be of service there, even if for a few seconds. Now I trust it. It might be something as seemingly innocuous as speaking the right sentence, something the stranger I was with may not have known to say. I never know.
Most of the time this experience is random and happens to me. Every once in awhile I can initiate it for my own intent, usually because I want to gather information when I know a loved one is in trouble. Or locate a lost pet. A few times I’ve had close friends ask me about some concern of theirs and I managed to make it work. I saw Elisabeth Smart in an underground bunker this way and assured my distraught friend that she was alive, and, that she would be recognized on the street by a passerby one day soon. I once located a missing man who had drowned, tangled in a pile of junk at the bottom of a lake, stuck in the torn webbing of an old lawn chair. He asked me not to disclose his location; he preferred not to be found. I’ve woken early after spending the night in a city during an earthquake. I knew I was in Asia by looking at the people around me, and so turned the news on the television to discover an earthquake had hit Kobe, Japan during the night. Apparently I’d volunteered as a rescue worker.
This shit happens to me all the time. If I say I’m tired, believe me; I worked all night. It used to freak me out. As a young child I’d run screaming to my parents, thinking I was dying. I must have been a fun kid. I remember the first time I saw the television show Quantum Leap, first feeling validated and relieved that other people were having these experiences also, and then thinking, no, they didn’t get that right. I certainly had no sidekick or homing device (other than my body.)
But I’ve gone off on a tangent here. The point, if there is one, is that time has never made sense to me. All through my working life I barely managed to keep to a schedule. I will probably never know if any of this serves any kind of useful purpose, but I am 100% certain that the reality we know through our five senses is but the tip of the iceberg. Our existence is so much larger and richer than what this obvious, or gross, reality would have us believe.
I’ve long revered the teacher Carolyn Myss, who says that “intuition is organic divinity – God in your blood and bones.” I know this is true. And decades ago, when she first published Anatomy of the Spirit, she inadvertently taught me an invaluable tool for protecting myself: “I command my spirit into my body in full at this time.” It’s all I’ve ever needed. Well, that and the Lord’s Prayer. I learned that in high school from reading the Gnostic Gospels. Christ predicates it in the Sermon on the Mount by telling us it’s the only prayer we will ever need, and I accepted that as truth with a capital T. It has served me in some some mighty scary encounters.
So where does this leave us today? It leaves me thinking about art, creativity, imagination, the intuitive workings of life. I’ve always joked, “all’s fair in love, war, and art.” That pretty much covers everything. Art is any thought, word, or action that is expansive or constructive. Art is alchemy.
Artists are natural alchemists, and time and space are their mediums. We think it’s paint or paper or metal or film, but those are merely convenient materials at hand. Artists instinctively know that we are eternal beings of light and vibrating energy. The wizard Maurice Sendak knew. By the way – he never wrote a children’s book in his life. He says he wouldn’t know how. That statement alone opens a continuous hallway of portals to explore…
Maurice Sendak, Where The Wild Things Are, from my Amazon affiliate link, which may result in a commission: https://amzn.to/45MCnle and Wild Things Are Happening, The Art of Maurice Sendak, https://amzn.to/3VHSuMe
Decades ago I bought a cheap cuff at a sidewalk fair. I simply loved the inscription: Fortune Sides With She Who Dares. The inside of the bracelet also has an inscription: I Will Make My Optimism Come True.
This thing is made of some cheap alloy and is worn thin, tarnished and bent out of shape. I treasure it. I will make my optimism come true, it says. Long before the concept of “toxic positivity” came into being I was busy re-inventing myself for the umpteenth time. Turns out, it’s a way of life. As they say, it beats the alternative. But I’ve never been toxically positive. Those who know me will attest that I’m barely positive at all. I lean towards the cynical view of life, but really only in the short term. I am eternally optimistic. And only ever momentarily deterred.
My seventh decade is proving a daunting challenge. Perhaps most of my generation have this in common. We grew up with a lot of cultural expectations about what our old age would look like and those are all proving to be untrue. Health concerns aside, my retirement income doesn’t cut it any more. Retirement was great while it lasted; it’s no longer practical. For starters, the appliances are mocking me. The dishwasher’s heating element is burnt out (a metaphor?) and last night’s lightning turned the clothes dryer into R2D2. It’s blinking frenetically and won’t quit talking jibberish.
So I am having to learn new skills. The work I did to support myself in the past isn’t a viable option as I can no longer spend hours on my feet. I’m learning technical skills now and looking forward to expanding my earning potential, reinventing myself still and again. My lifelong curiosity serves me well. And I do have some wisdom to share, and hopefully a modicum of inspiration.
My Mother was the epitome of optimism and determination. On those days when I can barely get out of bed, or I’m really feeling down and defeated, I remember to “channel my inner Doris…” She never lost her sense of humor. Upon hearing us children complain she would often quip drolly, “other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?” She was a master of perspective.
I have lost small fortunes in my life. I have joked when people asked me what I do for a living, “I’m a career researcher…” while wishing I had stuck with something, anything, been more consistent and made wiser investments. Exercised my intellect more and emotions less, perhaps loved myself a little more. I suppose if I’m paying attention, I fall in and out of love with myself a dozen times a day. In truth, I’ve never understood the tenet “love yourself.” That sounds rather airy-fairy to me. But I do know how to love my life. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: you just have to be a fraction more curious than scared. Some days a fraction is all I can muster.
So by measure of risk taking, I can only say that I wish I’d done more of that – taken bigger risks on myself. Trusted myself more deeply, invested in my own creativity. I wish I’d learned earlier that boundaries are the property lines by which we proclaim ownership of ourselves and keep out the thieves who would steal our souls.
Georgia O’Keeffe said “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life, and I never let it keep me from a single thing that I wanted to do.” She Who Dares. Turns out there are a lot of people in this boat with me. We will show up every day – making our optimism come true. How will YOU show up brave today?
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For church this week I’ve invited Angi Sullens to speak to us. She’s been inspiring me for years. She doesn’t pull any punches, and I appreciate that in a person. Wonder Hunter, filmmaker, Muse Juice travel guide, founder of Duirwaigh Studios, publisher of books and decks. I’m betting she doesn’t need to look for thin places; they emanate from her. So when imagination knocks…
When I was house hunting several years ago I had become quite discouraged. The first house I made an offer on I was over-the-moon smitten with. It really was my dream house. I didn’t get it. I offered $5K over asking price within 24 hours of it being listed. I was the second offer, and not the highest. But I was devastated. It still feels like a loss. Some days when I’m on an errand nearby I cannot resist the urge to drive past. Add house stalker to the list of my guilty pleasures.
Once I had a purchase agreement on the home I actually bought, moving toward closing, the process stalled twice. The seller was not complying with terms of my lender, or not fixing the things the inspection tagged. Again I became discouraged, so twice I threatened to call off the deal. It did motivate the seller. Each time when I became frustrated I did what I always do – asked for guidance in meditation. Both times I clearly heard: “you are being placed.” Because I was grieving the loss of the first house, I frustratingly replied to God, “whatever…”
The first neighbors I had next door were psycho neighbors from hell. I have never dealt with anyone like them in my life. They were threatening me and I was afraid in my own home. I suspect drugs were involved, but come to find out they had caused trouble with the other neighbors for years. I learned that the man I bought the house from had sued them apparently. Their dog had attacked his fiance’. The first summer I was here their cat attacked me – as in ran across the yard and flew 5 feet through the air at my face. The arm I used to block the attack required stitches and I was given a course of antibiotics.
A year or so later I received a letter from the township informing me that they had applied for a zoning variance. They wanted to open a day care facility, and a public hearing would be held at the next township meeting to decide that. There were already 4 adults, 2 teenagers and a few children living there in the small house. They regularly parked on my lawn. There was constant traffic around the clock, along with regular all night parties. Their dogs, cats, and chickens ran all over my property, including inside my gated back fence. And they often left my gates open as my yard was a shortcut for them to the side street – where 15 or 20 of their party guests would park once my lawn was full. They walked by my bedroom window all night with flash lights yelling to one another.
My daily life was untenable this way, and I concluded that I would have to move. But now my other neighbors came knocking on my door imploring me to action; they had received the same letter from the township and were in a panic. Further away and not in site, they had no idea what I was dealing with. They had endured their own altercations. That day in my living room we prepared letters to protest the zoning variance and attended the meeting en force. We took an attorney along (a family member of mine) to show we meant business. The application was denied, but I feared repercussions.
Early one morning before dawn I opened the front door to out my elderly beagle Odie. I was face-to-face with the neighbor woman immediately outside my front door, carrying a milk jug with brown liquid in it. Startled, I asked her what she was doing and she said, “killing these dandelions for you.” I said no, thank you, and asked her to leave my property, to which she narrowed her eyes and grumbled, “we were here first.” I don’t even know what that meant, but I didn’t ask. Don’t try to reason with insanity.
During this process I was meditating (when I wasn’t shaking and crying) asking for guidance. And I distinctly heard, “They are being re-placed.” I had no idea what the heck that meant either, but soon a For Sale sign went up in their front yard. I actually fell to my knees and burst into tears. No one should ever have to live like this.
Their house sold within 24 hours and $5K over asking price. That house, and the one behind me, have since been sold as holiday retreats to young families from Detroit and Chicago. Not only do I rarely see or hear anyone around me, but they are so very pleasant when they are here on the occasional weekend. They know I am keeping an eye. I will gladly take their weekend trash to set out, and they will often mow my “back 40” as a gesture of appreciation. They leave baked treats outside my door. I couldn’t want for better neighbors.
My house still needs work. In the 7 years I have been here I have done some, but not all, of the finishing work. Built in 1955 it is solid. It needs to be; it is usually buffeted by high winds off Lake Michigan. About a quarter mile inland, with wintertime glints of sun off the water, I look out from treetop level across valleys in three directions. Southeast I see pine-forested hilltops miles in the distance. Hawthorn Cottage is now a quiet little sanctuary, my very own thin place. So as it turns out, I have been placed.
Author and designer Ted Watson Kennedy has a summer home also named Hawthorne Cottage:
Okay. New week, new rabbit hole. Same theme: what do fashion, storytelling and rest have in common? I’m going to be a social archeologist until I grok this equation thoroughly. I’m certain there is some pearl of useful wisdom in here that I can build my empire on. Or at least get inspired to get out of the chair…
Enter Mary Portas, Habitat Voyeur. The creator of the kindness economy, Queen of Shops, considered a conscious entrepreneur, and dare I add, wizardess extraordinaire? Let’s just say, she gets it. She came from the future back to rescue us from ourselves and walk us into a new paradigm. We need a new paradigm. Sustainable. Inclusive. And nothing if not hopeful.
Very few people know that my teenage years revolved around fashion. My parents indulged my obsession by letting me go to finishing school on Saturdays during junior high. In addition to the cost involved, it meant my Mother drove downtown, about 20 miles each way from our suburban home, to drop me off and then again to pick me up eight hours later. That’s where I learned fencing, among other (mostly useless) skills. I loved it.
Around this same time it happened that my sister’s piano teacher had a daughter who produced shows at the big network affiliate in Detroit. Mrs. Hanes suggested her daughter use me as a model for The Jackie Crampton Fashion Hour, which followed the mid-day news on ABC. I guess you could say I was “discovered” in my own home. It began a bit of a teenage dream career, and before long I was making better money than I’d ever earn again the rest of my life. I worked as a model and then as a dresser and fashion assistant for Saks Fifth Avenue, and then for Belle Jacob Wigs. At the time they were one of the largest wig manufacturers in the world. I fell in love with wigs. I found I could create an entirely new persona on a daily basis. They really are an art medium all their own.
My first semester of college was in fashion illustration at The Detroit School of Arts and Crafts (now the College for Creative Studies.) But long before that I got in trouble in grade school for making anatomically correct paper dolls. It hadn’t occurred to me not to draw them correctly. Duh. By high school in the 60’s, where the girls were required to wear dresses, I was shopping at St. Vincent de Paul and other charity shops and taking the clothes apart and reconfiguring them to make outrageous outfits – but they had skirts! I was born this way, apparently. I still design clothes in my dreams. I often get up and draw them so that I won’t forget them. I have designed entire lines of shoes – none of them brown. Decades ago I designed a line of attachable pockets that you could mix and match and move from garment to garment. And a series of baggy linen tops with subtle tarot symbols embroidered on them. I’d love to wear them all.
But it was a different era. And I was learning to survive in a chaotic and sometimes violent home. A career in fashion was not to be. Mary Portas exemplifies the business woman I would like to support. Well, second only to Estella, perhaps. I do love trouble…
New to me, this concept of the thin place, where the veil between heaven and earth is thin…”this is what it must be like to be in heaven,” says Sarah Louise. So, like Michigan in the spring. Surely there is no place more wonderful on earth. Misty sunrises feel like a warm blanket. Suddenly everything is lush and green and aromatic and yummy and all the birds arrive at once.
The hawthorn tree out front is blossoming and it is magnificent. It’s old swooping branches whisper to the soft grass and curtain my bedroom window. I look out through it eastward to a valley across the road. Hawthorns are considered sacred in Celtic mythology. They are purported to be the portal between worlds, where the magical creatures like leprechaun and fae travel back and forth. I haven’t seen them, but the Cedar Waxwings fill this tree each May to gorge on it’s berries, and that’s magic enough for me.
Can thin places be as close as this? Can they also be indoors, perhaps in the form of altars? I’ve always thought of my entire home as an altar. Isn’t it all sacred as it shelters my body and my life? How could it not be? I believe our homes do, in fact, provide a thin place. Alone and with our closest loved ones, we are safe here to grieve and to dream. Be it ever so humble.
“Now I become myself. It’s taken time, many years and places…” – May Sarton
A Painterly Home 