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.
To say that I’ve been in a funk lately would be quite an understatement. My beloved family is really struggling, facing homelessness again. I’m heartbroken, and I can’t help. My friends are having a hard time, juggling hardship and trauma far more elegantly than they realize. My cat has been ill and I wasn’t sure he was going to make it a couple of nights ago (he has improved now.) My bank account just seems to be empty all the time no matter how hard I try to get ahead of the deficits. Unforeseen expenses come out of nowhere. I haven’t felt well, having another flare-up of chronic Lyme and wondering if I will ever feel alright again. I have had no energy.
About 2am last night something shifted, through no direct effort of my own. I have been meditating and praying more consistently (I haven’t been able to do much else) and doing my little magical feng shui “cures”…getting rid of yet more clutter and cleaning in small spurts as I learn to pace myself and accept that perhaps this may be the way it is now.
The cat woke me at 2. He let out a big sneeze and then crawled right up and stood on my chest staring at me. I reached over and turned the light on. Immediately I knew something was different; he was talking to me. He was letting me know to pay attention. He was better. I was better. The damp, mouldy old fog of fear and desperation had lifted. It was that experience you have when you feel so much better that you suddenly realize how far off you’d been.
What if…what if we just allow things to be easier? What if we re-member ourselves? What if we take the easy way out because EASY IS RIGHT…and right is easy? Have I been unconsciously making things harder than they needed to be? The circumstances haven’t changed, not yet at least, and they are still difficult. But FEAR makes everything harder – in fact, it makes things impossible. From fear I can’t see creative solutions to anything. From fear there is no hope of improvement, everything will go downhill from here. Sorrow has overwhelmed every cell of my being.
And how many times have I said you don’t need to figure it all out? You don’t need to understand what this is for. You just need to have ONE PERCENT more curiosity than fear…you just have to accept the POSSIBILITY that there is LIFE at the end of this tunnel.
Everyone has a soundtrack, maybe more than one. You think of the soundtrack of your life as the music you grew up to, your favorite artists and songs, the songs that played during the events and times that later became fond memories. I have one of those, but I’ve also got a different kind of soundtrack. I call it “God’s soundtrack.” I say God for short: it’s consciousness, maybe spirit. Maybe it’s my ancestors. Sometimes I know who it is. Sometimes it’s a deceased loved one, usually my Mother or my brother. It’s from “beyond…”
It happens when I’m praying, or talking to someone invisible, or to spirit. And it comes out of nowhere, unexpectedly. And I know it isn’t my invention because it addresses a specific question or subject – and because it is often a song or artist that I would never listen to to. I’m not a fan.
It happened yesterday morning. I was in a snit, to put it mildly. I had logged into my bank account to balance it after being away and…what the heck?! I had a huge ($200.) charge I wasn’t expecting and hadn’t authorized. So I got to the bottom of that, but it wasn’t easy or quick. It was theft, and I was not guaranteed that it would be returned; an investigation is pending. I was mad. I threw what I call a “spiritual temper tantrum.” God got a piece of my mind. And when I prayed, (let’s just say, in a spirited manner,) I specifically said: “You tell me you heard this and that you are on this! You hear me?! I want to know I’ve been heard!”
It wasn’t long as I went about my house cleaning routine that a song began to play in my head. I didn’t know the words, but I recognized some of them, and the tune. I didn’t know who the artist was. It had been grocery store background music at some time in my life. As I said, not a fan. It took a bit of investigation to find it. I found a couple of similar songs with similar words, one by a country singer and one by a heavy metal band. And then I tried a different sequence of words and found it. I hope you comprehend…
Are you a recovering people pleaser? I know I am. It’s not pretty. Let’s just say that self care was never a priority and boundaries were barely even in my wheelhouse. O-blivious. I’ve often joked that I’m Rita Van Winkle, the great granddaughter of Rip, and we fall asleep for 20 year increments in our lineage. But it really isn’t funny.
So, I was this many years old when I learned that sociologists refer to self-aware people as unicorns. Because, rare. Did you know this?!
Now the pendulum seems to have swung to the opposite extreme and I’m an “introspector.” I’ve established and continue to renew my commitment to self development. I want to become a unicorn. I’m just smart enough to know that I don’t know how to do that. It’s an experiment. The stumbling block for me, where my defensiveness fails to serve me, is that I don’t give a flip what others think of me. With the exception of a few people I’m close to and respect enormously, nope. Not interested. You have to be equally committed to your own self development or stop wasting my time.
But I do know one thing for sure: ain’t no way out but through. And so we might as well get to it, shall we?
when I’m dancing…I am free. I want Bill Nighy as my anxiety. But not really. I want free. Anxiety and pain have gotten the better of me this week. The lab tests came back, still and again, positive for Lyme. I’m not able to do much. Back on meds…ugh. These two remind me that art is the only way out of this mess – mine or yours, physical or emotional. And art is whatever you decide it is; whatever empties you.
I have to remind myself not to let fear take away my peace. This short film was made to help support the artists of Ukraine. Don’t we all feel helpless in the face of the world’s oppressors? And aren’t they oppressing to the best of their ability? My body can’t seem to fight off the bacteria from a minuscule insect, let alone war.
I think I broke a couple of toes last night, tripping out of bed. And I just started laughing (through the tears!) Oh my, how I take life all too seriously. Dear spirit will do whatever is necessary to get my attention. I will put on some music today and dance around if it kills me…and empty out my body and my mind of the debilitating anxiety. Get present. Get here now.
So what can we do in the face of oppression, of illness, of anxiety and worry? How do we switch off the solution driven thought machine and act creatively? Be our souls? We empty, we get outdoors, we go back to the old drawing board, we allow ourselves to be just a teensy bit more generous than feels comfortable right now…we expand.
We B R E A T H E….ahhhhhh. ‘Cause, don’t you wanna call it off?
Heart pounding anxiety woke me up at 3 a.m; which is not unusual anymore. I managed to talk myself off that ledge in about a minute. I’m getting better at it. My goal was freedom. The goal is always going to be freedom. Because I feel like my dream world, my rest, was hijacked. It’s mine. I want it back.
My friends and I are all worried about our adult children. They are struggling to find their footing in a culture that is undermining them every step of the way. And we are not sure how to help, or if we can. Mind you, they were raised as we were, in decent middle class families. We were well educated, but our current incomes are not cutting it. We don’t have the financial security we thought we were building all our work life. Our children left school in debt with no guarantee of a job, let alone a living wage. I read a news article last week that shocked me to my core: recent studies have shown that at least fifty percent of the baby boomers in the U.S. are financially supporting adult children. In many cases it’s the adult child and their family. They came home to get their feet back on the ground – in one case cited, 13 years ago.
Children or not, everyone I know is struggling. We are all trying to figure this out as we go along. We have no role models. We’re outliving our parents, and we are in entirely uncharted territory. We are the first generation that is openly talking about the abuse our parents and grandparents kept secret. No one was consciously dealing with narcissistic abuse 20 years ago. Or 10. No one recognized that past generations were being groomed for sexual abuse. The culture tolerated it, they tolerated verbal abuse, even laughed about it. They tolerated bad behavior, made excuses for it. Hell, we’ve voted it into the White House. Taking accountability for your behavior was optional. Do you wonder we have an epidemic of dementia?! (Help me forget!) Addiction? Of narcissism? Of sex trafficking? Of all manner of spiritual bankruptcy? Can no one connect the dots here?! That pandemic was no accident – it was a physical manifestation of a spiritual problem. It’s time to pull our heads out of the sand.
Meanwhile, I’m struggling with my health. Last week I called for a doctor appointment and was reminded that I have to be interrogated by a nurse over the phone to determine whether or not I am sick enough to qualify for a precious appointment. I have to beg just to be seen. Then before I can be given the necessary antibiotic I have to endure a week’s worth of tests. Meanwhile, I was prescribed a temporary superficial treatment. Medicare doesn’t cover that prescription, so I didn’t fill it. I can’t do that and buy groceries. And I’m angry about that.
Now, lest you think me ungrateful, or just a whiner, I am aware of opportunity hiding here in plain sight. When worry and anxiety seem to steal my peace I know my training is not yet complete. And I’m not havoc-ing it anymore (see blog post of March 15th.) Intellectually I know that the way out of angst is gratitude. But my intellect is not easily coerced. I can’t expect to start pontificating about big, general platitudes and get myself free. Those old affirmations aren’t working anymore; this feels like spiritual warfare.
But. I can start small…go back to basics. I’m sure glad I bought an orange desk chair instead of black. Orange is the happiest color. Wow, I love my bed. I love my wide Frodo feet. I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I say “Thank You” to everything I pass (yes, out loud) – the floor, the countertop, the cat, the doorway, the moon outside. Try it. There are big things I am grateful for, too – like my son having survived cancer. He is struggling through his self-proclaimed “mid-life crisis”…but he’s here for it. Not all of his friends have made it past 40.
I can re-member myself whole. I have resources in my spiritual tool box: friends, some of my family, a loving therapist, tarot cards! At 3 a.m. with a racing heart I call in invisible help: “Christ Jesus, Archangel Michael, Ancestors! Any and all available light workers.” That’s step one. I am NOT TO BE TOILED WITH here. Neither are you – know that. God didn’t make a mistake. You were not a cosmic afterthought. You do not need to “find your purpose”…you ARE your purpose. Live like you belong here. There are no qualifications you haven’t fulfilled. You have exactly the same right to be here as 8,019,876,189 other people. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Since that has been established, I can be the narcissist’s worse nightmare. My home, my mind, and my body – my sanctuary – is a no tolerance zone. No talking down to anyone. I carry an expectation that you will be on your very best behavior around me and show up as present as possible. Don’t ever settle for anything less from anyone. Not your teacher, not your boss, not your doctor, and certainly not your family. I can laugh at myself with the best of them – when I’m silly or wrong. But don’t make fun of me at my expense. Don’t ridicule me. I’m a fucking spiritual Jedi, and I’ve trained my boundaries to be stronger than my empathy. Everybody sing along now…
You will see the name of this blog change soon, to A Painterly Life. Let’s face it, it isn’t a blog about home so much as about life. And the content will broaden. We will venture out to explore the beautiful nature I am grateful to live in and near. We will continue to explore lifestyle, particularly through the lens of an aging woman…a creative woman who has survived incest, near-death experiences, growing up in an extremely dysfunctional family in the wild sixties, profound loss, decades of narcissistic abuse, and who is surviving chronic illness. But mostly, a woman who wants to live as open-heartedly as possible moving forward. Moving life forward will be the theme here.
Like most of us, from all walks of life, we are figuring it out as we go along. Our culture is changing fast – as it must. It’s archaic in so many ways. Those of us who long to see a new far more sustainable world for future generations must make serious and often difficult changes – and quickly – to keep our lives moving forward. To feel relative. We must learn to live as a verb rather than a noun.
“I want to learn to live my life as a liquid.” – Cody, Dinner At the Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler
These days my body and my psyche require an unreasonable amount of rest. I do resist, albeit futilely. I have so much to do. I find myself wondering how anyone works and does everything else, but in truth, we don’t. I didn’t. I ignored more than was healthy to ignore. I lived in a constant state of overwhelm. I suffered in silence, but I also caused an unnecessary amount of suffering in my bull-in-a-china-shop charge through life. But I survived. I’m a survivor.
So are you. And I maintain a foundational premise I have adamantly defended since adolescence – that creativity is the only way through this chaos. Art, to be specific. And art is not a thing, it is a process, a way of life.
And so I aver: ULTIMATELY, IT WILL BE THE ARTISTS WHO SAVE US. You’re not an artist, you say? I beg to differ. Do you problem solve? Art. Cook? Art. Sing when alone in the car, maybe even off-key? Art. Notice the lichen on the fallen log? Artist! Love crisp, clean sheets? Know when something just feels “off”? Have a favorite color? Savor coffee with dessert? I can go on, oh, and I will…stick with me.
Let’s talk about this plaque of deep fatigue, physically and psychologically. Perhaps more so psychically. Don’t think you’re psychic? Well, I will prove that you are that, too. And it is required of us now to acknowledge and develop this atrophied gift. It is part of living artistically. It is part of living.
We are human. We are alive. We are artists. We are now.
The past week has been a bit challenging. I haven’t felt well for a couple of weeks, but the fatigue finally took me down. I called the doctor. I’m still waiting on lab results, but I likely have an infection, perhaps a flare-up of Lyme, something chronically auto-immune. It’s my life now. That said, I’m grateful that my illness is invisible and manageable. I’m learning to live with it. I need far more sleep than most people, and I’m learning to allow for that.
The biggest factor in maintaining my mental health is being creative, and that can be evasive when I am tired. You see, I lose my curiosity and become lethargic…or I become lethargic and I lose my curiosity. I’m easily confused. I am less able to still mind and body and less likely to be internally moved; I seek a meaningful distraction.
I have always read voraciously. There is never enough to read that I find compelling. Love memoir, murder mystery, biography, tarot mythology, interior design and more. Since feeling punky the past couple of weeks I have been laying around reading. I’ve read Designing Rooms with Joie De Vivre by Amanda Reynal. I’ve read How To Be Old by Lyn Slater, A Walk Through the Forest of Souls by Rachel Pollack, and It’s Not You by Ramani Durvasula, PhD. All in hard cover, old school. I would recommend each of them. I’m obsessed with the weight and smell and sound of a book. I’ll buy used whenever possible. I dog ear corners, mark pages with handmade and improvised book marks and if I intend to keep the tome and read it again or use it as reference, I scribble thoughts in the margins. I really use my books. I’ve got a Kindle device and the app on my phone, linked to more than one library membership. That just sucks the joy out of reading for me.
But I have not felt creative at all. Friends have tried to call me out, to get me to “do something, Susan, even if it’s wrong,” I hear my Mother say in my head. I ignore their promptings. It has taken an “accidental” discovery of some new idea, and suddenly I am fascinated with soft fascination. Did you know about this? Have you been holding out on me?! Let me introduce you to this lovely artist, Jane Lindsey. She’s my inspiration this week. She will explain soft fascination, and we will all be better off for having met her.
“Unused creativity is not benign. It doesn’t just disappear. It lives within us until it is expressed, neglected to death, or suffocated by resentment and fear. Unexpressed creativity starts to kill us from inside.” – Brene’ Brown
“Your great mistake is to act the drama as if you were alone. As if life were a progressive and cunning crime with no witness to the tiny hidden transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings.”
Because I am inexplicably blessed with remarkable women as friends, I have been engaged in an ongoing conversation about what it means to live alone and to be isolated. Is isolation a healthy choice? There are many of us who have chosen to live alone in recent years, despite being women of advancing age. It certainly doesn’t look wise. But what if compromising our mental and emotional health in order to remain attached isn’t a viable option any longer?
In recent years I have seen friendships fall away simply because we were at different stages in life. Some friends have become caretakers for grandchildren, and don’t seem to have time for me. I have gone no contact with several friends as my boundaries have become healthier and I was less available for their demands. Beloved family members have died, or slipped into the oblivion of dementia. As I watched alcoholism destroy the minds and bodies of those closest to me, I’ve become less tolerant of addiction. I can’t stand to be around people who are drinking. They think they are entertaining and fun; they aren’t. They are defensively unconscious. My compassion for them has increased; I still love them. But I don’t want to be around them.
And then coming to terms with narcissistic abuse takes it’s toll on everyone. It deals a particularly cruel penance, a psychic solitary confinement. Much like alcoholism, and often combined with it, it extends it’s creeping tentacles into our psyche and rips apart our very lives. Here’s my analogy: You went to sleep in your cuddliest pajamas and you woke standing naked in a distant field, the tornado having just dropped you there. Nothing is recognizable. Dramatic? If you know, you know.
Chosen isolation is transformative. When embraced it is healing. Solitude is a welcome adjustment, health chosen over dis-ease, dysfunction. There is psychological room to breathe, and growth can finally take place. You gain some essential perspective…and then you begin to see the workings of life in the cult of fear. The man behind the curtain is no wizard.
It seems to me that once you can tentatively poke your toe out of survival mode and assess, there is much accountability to face. If you can get beyond your defenses and self loathing, you win. I confess that I used to scoff at people who said that joy can be experienced equal to the grief you have known. Psychobabble alert. But as spring is beginning to emerge here in the cold north (and it is still mighty cold), I am noticing…I am noticing a remarkable expansion. I am feeling less isolated and more connected, even – or maybe especially, to an invisible mystery. It’s enticing me toward something unknown. This is not the end of my story.
Perhaps there are different kinds of isolation, or different levels. Perhaps some isolation is healthy and some is unhealthy; maybe it’s a stage, a transition..maybe…just maybe everything is waiting for you.
“Some bridges are beautiful when they burn. There’s a calmness that takes over when you can’t go back. When you’ve changed. When you’ve decided. When you’ve left behind a version of you that is no longer you. The end of everything is the start of anything.” – zach pogrob
Well. I’m struggling this week as I think about aging, and women who have inspired me as I become an elder…and I’m compelled to think about my Mom. I’m older now than she was when she died. There is nowhere to look but inward. She has been gone 21 years this week, and I still miss her every day. When I think of writing about her, I don’t know where to start. I could write an epic tome, volumes…17,898 chapters – one for every day we lived at the same time, most of those days in close contact. She was my best best friend.
Doris was a little spit of a woman, barely a hundred pounds, a sparkling fairy with red hair and green eyes and freckles. She looked fragile, but she was a force to be reckoned with. She did not have an easy life, but she was never daunted by challenges. She took everything in stride and pushed into possibility and unwavering hope, always. She was a tireless champion for her five children. And then for her grandchildren, of which my son had the great privilege to be first born. She was obsessed with him. I suspect he came just in time to renew her future imaginings. My son was about five when he said, “I love Nana, she spoils me rotten.” Indeed.
As a young adult I looked to begin a tradition with Mom, to find something we could do together, just the two of us. I started to buy us concert tickets, some to my favorite musicians, and some to hers. I would choose an outdoor venue in the middle of summer and pack us a picnic so we could sit in the parking lot afterwards and talk while we waited for the traffic to clear. I got to have her all to myself. I endured country for her, and Neil Diamond. I drew the line at Willie and implored my sister to take her in my place. I was such a snot (glad I outgrew that…)
One summer I was excited to get us great tickets to see k.d. lang. It would cause quite a rift with my two sisters. They forbid her go. It seems we were not allowed to support artists who were gay. She decided to defy them and go anyway. I reassured my sisters there was no need to worry, that we weren’t going to “sleep with her – we’re only going to listen to her sing.” Oh what I would give for one more day…
Yesterday I drew the Emperor as the tarot card of the day. Specifically, I drew from the Emily Dickinson Tarot. The deck depicts the major arcana as insects, derived from her work as a botanist. The Walking Stick is our Emperor here. Always looking to take action as acknowledgement of the card, I went for a walk. And I asked the Emperor to talk to me, to show me something useful. What popped into my mind surprised me, as intuition often will. I imagined a movie character as The Emperor – Grace, from the movie Hope Gap. How on earth could Grace embody the Emperor? Grace is a hot mess.
Grace is faced with her marriage ending. But they didn’t grow apart after 29 years; he suddenly left for another woman. Not only is she facing her older years alone, but utterly rejected. Perhaps for the first time in her life, Grace is faced with herself. She becomes inconsolable, and intolerable. We’re not quite sure if she and her family will survive this.
This story is a memoir. It was written and directed by William Nicholson, and is the story of his parents divorce and the way it changed a family. The way each of them were transformed. The lives that came out differently than expected. And here is where the Emperor shows up.
The Emperor embodies all four kings of the minor arcana. He is the intellect king of swords, arrogant and haughty and absolutely devoted to the truth. Ultimately he is your best soldier once he matures to realize he isn’t always the smartest person in the room. He is the king of wands, intuitive and compassionate and fair – above all else, fair. In his younger self we saw his impulsive nature and his one-sided idealism get in his way, but he sees his place in history. The king of cups has learned to love the hard way. It isn’t what he thought it meant. It requires dedication and loving action even when he doesn’t feel it, even when anger seems to consume him. And the king of pentacles has learned to manage energy, because without his health he has no throne, no say. And without his wits about him his fortunes will be squandered, and he will be rendered powerless that way as well. He intends to stay in power and to use it effectively. They have all learned to stand their ground, to govern judiciously. And they have learned what power is for.
Grace is shaken to her core, and she must find a way to survive and flourish. And live her life, her way. In her transformation we are all healed. So, yeah, I can see Grace as an emperor. But as it happens, the emperor wasn’t finished with me yet…
The Emperor is my son’s archetype. My son is the most important person in my life. When he was going through cancer treatment in his early twenties I remember something funny he said one day. He said “I know I’m going to be alright no matter what happens, but what are we going to do about getting you some help?” That’s the emperor. These days I am watching him mid-life, struggling to re-invent himself, floundering. He would make the very best dad, but he is not likely to have children of his own. That is not the path of the emperor. They walk alone, the shamans, the way showers. And I need to let him go. I need to alchemize my own life and let him learn to survive and flourish. I need to be Grace. Embrace your own internal Emperor today and be compassionate with yourself. The world is waiting for you.
A Painterly Home 