This might be one of the most difficult posts I have written in the 13 – 14 years I’ve had this blog. I’ve lost my mojo. I am taking a class to get it back. Seriously, a class. Maybe group therapy would be more accurate…for aging women like myself who can’t seem to find their way. It’s called Wayfinding. I’ve missed the first of the six weekly sessions already. This past week it’s pneumonia trying to take me out; but isn’t it always something?! So, I’ll have to keep you posted. I have catch-up homework, and I don’t mean that metaphorically.
Suffice it to say my motivation took flight with my self worth somewhere back near the beginning of winter. Okay, maybe right after the election last November. And life hasn’t felt the same since. You never imagine you are going to live through the things you studied in high school history, like pandemics. And brutal fascist regimes. Life was so….so….mmmmm…not easy by any means…maybe the term I’m searching for is naively optimistic.
But here I am, in my seventh decade, feeling somewhat ignorant and defeated. Before you ask – thanks for your concern – yes, I’ve consulted my doctor. Switched antidepressants. Tried generic Adderall. Yuk. Therapy. Then no talking. Eating more meat. Eating no meat. Giving up sugar along with my will to live. “Mojo…where are you?” It’s gone like Car 54.
If you’ve read this far, I’mma sume you are experiencing some of this yourself. Congratulations. We made the shift to hyper-space. It feels like we left our soul back in the previous galaxy when we came through that wormhole. Like not all our particles beamed up in the transporter. I want to posit something for your consideration here: maybe – just maybe – we actually left behind every molecule of ourselves we NO LONGER NEED.
Now, nobody dislikes a Pollyanna more than me. I’m a supreme skeptic. But what if – and I know I’ve said this before, but really – what if we are right where we need to be doing exactly what we need to be doing? Because I didn’t come this far just to come this far.
Let me say that I am unequivocally uninterested in re-inventing myself. Been there, done that, got a closet full of those tee shirts. But this is different. You feel it, too. THIS. IS. DIFFERENT. All that psychobabble about 3D to 5D reality aside, you hippies…WTF does this mean?!
It means we drop the pretense. Pretense being anything and everything we pretended was real. Or significant. Drop who you think you are. Let yourself fall apart at the seems.
Let’s try an experiment: question everything you thought you knew. Everything you thought you knew about yourself, about who you are. Who you were, where you came from, why you’re here. Why that family? Why this country? Why that interest? Don’t assume anything. Dig deep. Where did that belief come from? Why do you think that? Draw the line at this boundary: Do I trust that I know right from wrong? Start there and come back to this exact moment in time. Question everything up to now.
And now answer this: what do you want? What do you want?
This little reprieve away I went south – literally. I flew from Michigan to Arizona to help a friend make the trek back. As we are in our 70’s now, and our priorities have changed, she was moving from Tucson back to Traverse City to live close to children, grandchildren, and friends. To lend support and be supported; that’s what it’s about now that we are aging.
We finished up the last little bit of packing, and once the movers had the house cleaned out, she and I left to drive back to Michigan in her car. We left Arizona in a blizzard, which seems perfectly appropriate. Why wouldn’t we drive through the steep mountain passes of Salt River Canyon in a blizzard? Because as we know, WWASOS (white women ain’t scared of shit.)
She was driving. We had a hotel reservation and a deadline. We got through the mountain blizzard and both said, “well, that wasn’t bad.” The next morning I overheard two older truck drivers in the hotel lobby talking about that drive being the scariest thing they’ve ever done. We were in Gallup, New Mexico, headed to Santa Fe, and were informed by the hotel that our highway east was closed temporarily due to a semi pileup. The roads were icy and it was snowing. So we lingered over breakfast before taking off, and that drive was a breeze.
We were reminded what a spectacular country this is. Wow, it is beautiful. Very inspiring. My dear friend treated us to lovely hotels and meals. We drew tarot cards and we cried a little and laughed a lot – and solved all the world’s problems you’ll be glad to know. Only a little witchcraft was involved…some reiki, some prayers (aka spells), and a good deal of coffee…
And I am home, my favorite place to be in the entire world. I am once again reminded of how addicted I am to my routine, my creature comforts close at hand (not at the bottom of a bag) and how I do so love the trees and the birds and the lush rolling hills of Michigan. The topography is soft and undulating here, like me. This is my land.
Okay. Let’s get down to the nitty gritty, shall we? We are less than a month into this new political administration. Regime, more accurately. I see it. I see the evil. Listen, I’ve lived with evil. Come face to face with it in my own home. You know that scene in Constantine where he puts his feet in a tub of water and travels into hell? Done it. (Don’t tell anybody I know how to do that.) That movie’s depiction of hell looked like a Disney ride compared to my experience. But I was successful in my mission. And I learned a few things. I’ll keep them to myself for now.
I was born into an upper middle class family in the suburbs of Detroit during the automobile boom. Both my grandfathers were in business together. They owned a company that built and maintained railroad tracks. That’s how the cars were moved. I was also a direct descendent of more than one founding father, cousin to several Presidents. I was destined to live a privileged life.
It will never cease to shock me how white Americans are so drastically unaware of their privilege. I’m still regularly shocked when I see it in myself, deeply ingrained as it is. But somehow I began to see this as a young girl. Somehow my parents and grandparents and teachers taught me some true values. I know right from wrong. And true from evil. You see, good is not the opposite of evil: truth is. Do not be fooled – we are not in any sort of political dilemma; the political era we see playing out is a symptom of a much deeper struggle over values. We are in a spiritual battle for the soul of humanity. Out there is a hologram we are projecting. We humans WILL come out the other side of this healed, whether it takes a decade, a century, a millennium – or ten minutes*. Our choice.
Perhaps this is the reason I don’t fear the future. Maybe it’s just my old age. Are we looking at some horrifically hard times here in the U.S? Probably. If we survive, will we lose loved ones? Very likely. I am looking as purposefully and accurately as I can, in order not to be naive or shy away from painful awareness. And, I am doing my homework.
News flash: the sky is not falling. It already fell. You are standing on it. Now, pull your head out of your past and get busy. Take the absolute best care of yourself possible. Love the people in your life. Love your pets, the animals around you in nature, all life. Love them all fiercely. Live with intention. Sage your house like a mutha, especially after you feel anger, fear, or sadness. Detox your body. Vote with your money. Practice your rituals. Keep calm and stay inside the salt circle. KNOW, beyond a shadow of a doubt, your values – and never, ever – EVER – compromise them. Not for any person, not for any amount of money, not even if your life seems to depend on it. Don’t be the Judas. Stand true to yourself at all costs. And to the best of your ability, give nothing to fear. Contribute nothing to defensiveness.
Would I stand up to a bully? Absolutely. And I’ve had a lifetime of practice. Would I defend my loved ones – or anyone less fortunate, for that matter – against a bully? With my life. But make sure you aren’t one. Don’t go looking for the others. There are no others. And the best way I know how to do that is to extricate the unhealed trauma from my own body; to face my own demons. Believe me, we all have them. As long as you are still sitting there in your lovely home, sipping your tea or coffee, only think about Heaven. Imagine it. Open your heart and radiate warmth. Read uplifting stories. Learn who to trust. Turn off the news. Most importantly, expound endless mantras of gratitude.
* (what A Course in Miracles calls the Holy Instant)
He was a well educated professional. I was an unskilled hourly worker. I guess you could say he married below his station. In fact, he had a genius IQ and, like the movie character Little Man Tate, had his advanced degree by the age of nineteen. He went from college into an administrator position straight out of school. He was brilliant. But I was smart.
Within weeks of our getting married we were dealing with children in crisis. His dear daughter was being released from court-ordered drug rehab and he was excited to see her. He handed her the car keys and a wad of cash and told her to have fun with her friends. What a great Dad. I remember telling him, “I wouldn’t trade my smarts for yours for anything in the world. I hope your daughter survives to grow up. Meanwhile, what am I going to do with you for the the rest of my life?”
Like many unhappy couples, we primarily argued about money. Especially since we skipped silly little tasks like repairing the leaky roof in lieu of supporting the nearby casino. But if I brought this up he told me, “at least I have a real job.” I used to sing around the house, “why can’t you be like your big brother Bob – get a haircut and get a real job?!” Because I would make jokes about anything I couldn’t communicate any other way…a sort of last-ditch effort at making a point. From the abstract to the surreal I guess.
Just a few days ago a friend called to talk. She is in the grievous process of selling her home and filing for divorce after forty years of marriage. She stumbled upon his affair, apparently hidden for years at this point. Being in their 70’s now, I seriously doubt it’s his first. He’s always been rather distant. Emotionally unavailable. And, of course, we haven’t lived this long without having dealt with our share of hardship. I have watched for decades as she held that family together through thick and thin. Having lost her own parents early in life, she cared for his ornery, ungrateful mother through years of dementia with the patience of a saint. She nursed him back from the edge of death more than once, including donating an organ to save him. But he was preoccupied elsewhere. By divorcing, she’ll get half of everything, which is half of what she’d have if he’d died…and you wonder why women contemplate murder.
Let me make a monumentally long story short: I am dealing with the depression and angst of feeling like I have been stupid for the first 60 of my 70 years. Really – just downright, flat-out stupid. Trying to make relationships work with narcissists. The word familiar comes from family.
And part of this recent realization comes with the acknowledgement that I allowed my creativity to be sabotaged all of my adult life. In other words, I sabotaged it in deference to people pleasing. In a futile attempt at keeping my beautiful home and family together.
Like Camille Henrot, I did everything I could not to become an artist, and like Camille Henrot, I find art can help make sense of the world a little bit – or at least respect it’s nonsense. When I say respect, I mean like I respect the power of water, or nature. I mean respect like reverence for that which I find myself powerless to control.
“Oh love, bring every grief you’ve carried with you as a door you’ll walk right by / if you don’t stop to look with that loving heart and a troubled eye.”
Our troubles feel as if they are like stone, a compacted, impenetrable medium which will not allow us in. It’s time to “put my money where my mouth is…” so to speak. Time to show up, front and center, and face that stone inside, standing steadfast between me and my own liberation. I talk a good game, don’t I? All this wisdom about getting free. As if I had a clue.
When I am lost as I am this week, in the rock hard grief of my own making, I have few places I can turn. I can always turn to David Whyte. Ironically, I was introduced to him long ago by a friend I no longer have any contact with. She chose to stay in the comfortable captivity of her abusive marriage, and I had to stop pretending that I could be her supportive friend. If you read this journal once in a while, you’ll realize this theme has carried throughout the 13 years since I began here. I’ve gone no contact with more people than I have in my life anymore. Every single one has been a death I am mourning. In retrospect today, this seems an obvious theme. After all, I began this outlet as a means to help me process my divorce and separation from family, from everything I’d ever thought I wanted. To come up against that rock hard resistance and face the unknown.
C.S. Lewis is quoted as saying how shocked he was to realize that grief feels so like fear. There is good reason for that. Grief is the last doorway between us and our freedom, and we are terrified of our freedom. How, exactly, do we manage to be in the world, but not of it? Get back to me on that, won’t you, please?
It turns out that ignorance is never bliss; it’s really only ignorance. It also turns out that bliss was never the goal. It has always been awareness, whether we care to admit that or not. Bliss would be, well, blissfully easy by comparison. But awareness is how we get to freedom – which is our one and only job here. We like to pretend the god ate our homework. Yes, you read that right. So what is all this angst-ing about? Well, I have come up against the biggest boulder my heart has ever encountered, and I’m guessing you have one, too.
Since my teenage years, all of my relationships have been hard. I am hard. I have always been difficult to get along with. Something inside of me has always been as uncompromising as a boulder. I was the eldest of five children, and the scapegoat in a narcissistic family system. Yada, yada, yada…I married young. I got out as soon as I could, and I wasn’t going back. At the age of 24 I had my son, and he has been the light of my life. In many ways, my salvation. I don’t think I’d be alive today were it not for him, and I certainly wouldn’t be the person I am. He inspires me endlessly. But we are at odds right now, and it is breaking my heart. It has shaken me to my core.
Intellectually, I can explain everything. To tell the entire story, I have to begin with the health problems which impacted that pregnancy. I was always a nervous and thus scraggly kid. In high school I was diagnosed with bleeding ulcers. I struggled all of my young life to keep weight on. So I was considered medically malnourished when I became pregnant at 23, and I proceeded to lose 24 pounds. I gave birth to a healthy 9 pound, 6 ounce baby with teeth coming through his gums, but I left the hospital at just over 90 pounds. I’m 5′ 6″ tall. Perhaps because of this, he has always had some (miraculously mild) learning disabilities, despite an extraordinarily high I.Q.
During his first year in school he began to show behaviors that we would now recognize as autism. I took him to every doctor of every type that I could think of. We checked his eyesight, we checked his hearing, we checked his cognitive abilities. The doctors all told me exactly the same thing: this child is a genius. He is bored. With the wise counsel of some teacher friends we began a discipline of working through a daily checklist. I would write and draw it out on a blank sketchbook page at night, and he would work through it after school the next day. He had to complete it before he was allowed to play. It always included 2 or 3 light chores and 2-3 fun, creative activities. It always included Hug Your Mother (because I’m not above manipulation.) Then, an hour before bed we sat together and read a story or watched a favorite cartoon while I massaged his feet with a grounding oil, usually sandalwood. This routine was working beautifully. To this day, when he becomes stressed he will often create a checklist.
I am telling you this now because he has been struggling again. As mentioned recently, he is quite depressed. The aftermath of the recent natural disasters seems to have impacted him deeply. He is a highly sensitive person. But I, too, am struggling terribly as a direct result of interacting with him, in his mental and emotional distress. And because I am literally the only sober person he knows, I’m the sole voice of reason in his life right now. I must make mental health the priority of our lives.
And yesterday, I suddenly felt terribly helpless. I was consumed with fear, and I blew it. He came out of left field touting some wild conspiracy theory about the corrupt government having created the weather disaster and being out to get us all – and I lost my shit. It isn’t even that I necessarily disagree with everything he was saying, but I absolutely cannot – cannot – function from that perspective. It is mired in fear. It is entirely divisive. And it is utterly hopeless. Talk about a conspiracy!
I don’t know that I have ever screamed that loud before in my life. I screamed at the top of my lungs – at him. I told him he was dead wrong about so much of what he has recently adopted to believe. And in no uncertain terms I told him that he is subscribing to cult behavior, and that I am afraid for his sanity. I frightened him, and I frightened myself.
And so, shaken as I was yesterday, I must ask myself some very tough questions. Do I want to defend my own personal beliefs at the cost of anyone else’s freedom, including my sons’? What if he and I become estranged and never speak, as the current politics has divided so many families? Can I live with that? Are my convictions that important? Are yours?
Do I have other options here, besides finding “the truth” of the situation? Of course. Firstly, I recognize that if I am not experiencing peace, I have given away my sanity. Somewhere in the hours/days/weeks leading up to this blowup I have assigned meaning somewhere it doesn’t belong. If every upset is a setup (and it is,) I bought into somebody else’s agenda. Or in this case, depression. I picked it right up because it’s a familiar habit. And if I picked it up psychically, so did my empathic son. We can put it down just as fast. I’m not going to give assholes my vote this election. My pussy is not up for grabs. Neither is my mind. Out, demons, out! Here’s to our better angels.
Both my son and I lost our sense of humor – and perspective! After all, that’s what depression is. I fell into that bad habit, and so did he. Now I want my funny son back. I want my kind, intelligent son back. I’m thinking that screaming at him isn’t the best approach. But I’ve been holding on too tightly. Too much fear bottled up inside. It is no coincidence that I am having a flare-up of asthma symptoms. I have been holding my breath. I’m done with that. You want to see what created weather looks like? Watch out for that boulder rolling downhill. Tomorrow’s forecast is warm and sunny.
“You too have travelled from so far away to be here, once reluctant and now as solid and as here and as willing to be touched as everything you have found.” Thank you, David Whyte.
My friends and I are all getting old. Our children are middle-aged; our grandchildren and nieces and nephews are no longer young adults. And, sadly, I have to report that I do not personally know anyone who isn’t struggling. We are all finding it increasingly harder to make ends meet; we are having to make difficult decisions every month, or week…or day. For me, still living relatively comfortably, albeit paycheck to paycheck now, it means I drive an older used car. I’ve long since given up vacations. I eat out far less often. I cannot afford to adopt another dog after losing my darling companions, and if Medicare doesn’t cover the prescription I look for a natural alternative. Uncomfortable, yes; life-threatening, not thus far.
When we are honest with ourselves the future is rather scary. When we are honest with ourselves, we must confess that the middle class is gone and our leaders haven’t had our back in decades. Our food and water supplies are largely toxic to us now. You heard it here first – I’ve been saying this since I was a young woman. I began acknowledging that we are living in a military state here in the U.S. when Reagan was in office. No one was listening. That awareness came to me in a dream. Wurnt nobody listenin’ to that woowoo…
Among my closest friends, including those who don’t know one another, there is a profound concern for the welfare of our children and grandchildren. But I am having to talk most people I know (and sometimes, myself) down off a certain ledge – the concern that our children are not self-sufficient. And no one seems to be aware of the scope of this phenomenon. Yes, the most recent census told us that over 50% of baby boomers are helping to support their offspring. More than half of American households now house at least two generations.
I suspect those numbers are conservative, for we don’t understand much of what the increasing poverty is telling us. Poverty causes depression – and depression means that the people behind the doors of those little houses do not care about your survey. Even I have a No Soliciting sign on my front door. I am 70 years old. I do not need you to help me decide how to vote; I have been politically active since 1972. Go away. I especially do not need you to help save my soul. Go away. But I digress…
WHY are the younger generations not trying to improve their lot? What is wrong with them? Well, I will argue that there is, in fact, something RIGHT with them. Weren’t we idealistic back in the 1960’s?! We thought we would change the world. We thought we would end the Vietnam war and save the planet and the polar bears. We would change the government leadership. We would wake everyone up…and here we are, old and sick and tired. We had no clue what we were up against.
Now, before you think me too cynical, let me tell you why this is exactly as it should be. This is not, I repeat NOT, the end of the world. It is the end of the world as we know it. And baby, that sucker needs to burn. The systems and infrastructures and cultural expectations of the past must be transfigured. It won’t be pretty. It won’t be easy. It has to happen.
And the revolutionaries and shamans and visionaries that will bring a new way of life into being are your children, and my child, and our grandchildren. They already woke up – while you and I were scrambling to make ends meet, arguing over who is woke, and subconsciously functioning in “what the everloving fuck is happening?” mode. They are biding their time and not wasting precious resources (including themselves) trying to fit into in our dead culture.
Molly Tuttle was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease at the age of three. It causes her hair to fall out. While I am whining about my achey joints and not feeling creative, she’s years past worrying about what might get in her way. She isn’t letting anything hold her back.
“And who am I to wish I wasn’t just the way I am?!” she sings. And who are you? Insert here my stubborn argument for A) healing our codependent addictions before they kill us all, and B) while we are at it – HELP SUPPORT OUR CHILDREN to the best of our ability. Any way we can. If you haven’t got any children, help support someone else’s. Any way you can. Because who do you think you are that you know how to fix this mess? And don’t you DARE give up on anyone, let alone everyone. Don’t you dare lose heart. Don’t come to my door selling your beliefs and your outdated culture. You won’t like me when I answer.
Meanwhile, back here at the ranch, it’s gonna be a big week. So buckle up, buttercup. A hard rain’s a-gonna fall. And trust me – you need to trust your children. They are a crooked tree.
She’s the Colour Curator of Farrow and Ball. There’s my dream job sorted. She doesn’t tell you what colors to use – she invents them. A friend recently asked me the color of my bathroom walls…uh…I dunno. I had 3 partial gallons of leftover paint and I mixed them until I got something I sorta liked. I will often do that. Not because I think I’m going to come up with anything better than I could buy, but because I hate wasting paint. Never mind the environmental damage of disposing of it. I go through a lot of paint. Are you familiar with Fordite?! Fordite (or Detroit agate) is what was created in the Ford Motor Company painting facilities when the many layers of automobile paint would build up thickly on the factory walls. Now they “mine” it – chip it off the walls and make jewelry from it. My house is going to be like that soon. Years ago another friend once commented that I would be losing square footage if I kept repainting. It’s what I do…I make no excuses for it.
Joa Studholme tells us that color will “completely change the spirit of a home.” Did you know your house has a spirit all it’s own? It does. Here Joa walks us through her own home, where she takes her inspiration from the countryside around her. The color of the cows were the choice for the window frames. I love it. She wanted it to be a treat; job done.
Like in her kitchen, painting the inside of a window jamb a sunny gold or yellow is an age-old design trick that will brighten any room on a gloomy day. Who says it can’t be a different color than the room? Wasn’t me. We are artists, people! What color will you treat yourself with in your home this week? Paint a fun stripe somewhere, or even just a door. Go ahead, try it. I dare you.
Nearing the end of 2024 I am wondering if I will ever “bounce back” from the pandemic. Have you? Do you think there is any bouncing back? I think we are changed forever. I know I am. There are two distinctive reasons I will never be the same, and I would like to share them if you will indulge me. I’d like to hear how it has affected your life. Even if the changes aren’t obviously attributable to the pandemic itself. How has your life changed in the last (almost) five years?
This morning I am needing to chew on the left side of my mouth. I am going through a series of periodontal treatments in an effort to save my teeth. The first treatment was originally scheduled for March – 2020. That didn’t happen. It was cancelled due to the shutdown. By the time we seemed to be coming out of that horrific nightmare scenario and the dentist called to reschedule, I was battling Lyme disease. My face was disfigured by Bell’s Palsy and I was beginning a series of acupuncture treatments for that. Thankfully those worked to restore most of the muscle use in my face, although not completely. Acupuncture is not covered by Medicare insurance. Neither is periodontal work, but they’re both necessary.
The other event that was cancelled that spring was a huge luxurious and much needed mental health vacation. It was a workshop I was scheduled to attend near Scottsdale, Arizona. Led by two of the most revered influences in my life, Elizabeth Gilbert and Rob Bell, the spiritual retreat was titled How to Imagine.
One of my closest friends lives in Tucson and had decided to attend after I told her about it. She offered to share her room at the resort hosting the weekend. But I didn’t think I could come up with the workshop fee, let alone the air fare. When I spoke about it another friend offered an airline credit. I was yet undecided. It would be a stretch financially and I would have to arrange in-home pet care for my elderly dogs.
Meanwhile, it was a local friend’s January birthday and we met for dinner. She was so excited to tell me all about the workshop she had just registered for…you guessed it. By this time I knew I had to go. It was meant to be and I would beg, borrow, or steal to get there. I did a little of each and managed to get registered in time for an early bird discount. Now I had two close friends who would be there, and something inside me knew this held profound healing opportunity.
When the airlines shut down the workshop was cancelled. I’m not sure why, but I have never gotten over the disappointment. Something inside me snapped. All manner of magical synchronicities had occurred to allow me that gift and I suddenly felt like a child whose dreams were never to be. I must have transferred a basketful of grief to this because I was disproportionately leveled. It was the straw…
Subconsciously I had decided that trip would be a pivot point in my life. By making that commitment happen, I could then give myself some unearned or undeserved permission to live creatively that I would not otherwise permit myself to have. I have not yet recovered that authority. Perhaps I won’t.
And here I sit, almost five years later, chewing on the right side of my mouth, still feeling like I’ve missed something. My Mother would say, “move along smartly.” And she was a very wise woman, so…watch this space…
The truth is that I don’t know where to begin…I bought this house for my beloved two little rescue dogs. Hariat was five years old when we adopted her from the Lakeshore Pembroke Welsh Corgi Rescue. I said we because I was married at the time, and we drove almost five hours south to pick her up from the farm where she was being fostered. Down and back in one day. When we arrived home that evening our sweet corgi Oliver was waiting with my brother and Dad, who lived with us at the time. We lifted Ariat, as she was named then, out to the driveway to meet Oliver at nose level. Oliver was the second corgi we had adopted a few years prior. They smelled one another and did a runner around the yard. Our mouths dropped open; they acted like they recognized each other and were the oldest of friends getting reacquainted. They were genuinely glad to see each other. Adjustment time = zero days.
Several months prior we had lost my darling Christie, or Arborglenn Pastel of Christie as she was registered with the AKA. Her mother had been US Champion of Breed, and she was the first corgi I had ever known. She was the canine love of my life and 15 years was far too short a time together. I was devastated losing her and had no intention of ever opening my heart to another dog again. At that time Oliver had been with us a few years. He was devastated, too. But during a routine checkup for Oliver the vet asked how we were getting along without Christie and I burst into tears. The vet admonished me and insisted I consider adopting another dog. A few months later we were blessed to find Ariat.
Ariat had been a working dog on a horse farm, named after a brand of equestrian gear. But her name was difficult for the three curmudgeon men of the house. And so she and I discussed the issue and agreed we would add an H to the beginning of her name. Problem solved. She would teach me that I could open my heart again. She was an angel in a dog suit.
We lived in a beautiful saltbox colonial in the lovely wooded suburb of Shorter Lake Woods. I not-so-affectionately called it the snub-division of Stepford Lake Woods. I loved the house itself, not the snooty neighborhood or the ridiculous homeowners association.
We had three neighbors, each a half acre away, including the HOA president next door. The homes on either side were barely visible through the mature pine trees unless you were actually outside in one of the side yards. The house across the road was visible through the western living room window. But it seems they could see us, and we were in constant non-compliance to one of the many rules.
One summer weekend I had a friend visit from downstate, a Michigan State University graduate with a degree in landscape design. She commented that the trees were past their maturity and in dire need of attention. I had no idea! And what do I do about that? “Well, she responded, we can do some trimming right now for starters.” And she was up and out, grabbing her very impressive lopers from the trunk of her car. And she and I worked all day trimming lower branches, her teaching me why this was good for the health of the tree and how it would benefit the canopy. We transplanted perennials I didn’t even realize would flower in some sun. We made mulch out of gathered pine needles. I hadn’t worked that hard in years. I would get a letter three days later from Mr. President informing me that I was not allowed to trim trees. It must be done by a professional arborist.
It hadn’t been long before that when old Christie had been laying out on the front lawn one day. She was quite lame by this time, and deaf and blind. Oliver had been an abused puppy before we adopted him, always timid and terrified of strangers. So he lay on the front porch well behind Christie. I returned home from work and turned in my drive behind a strange white truck. The county animal control. Seems they had received three complaints about our dogs. The officer got out of his truck and approached the house and neither dog moved. Maybe they attempted a muffled insincere bark. He asked if we could speak inside. He informed me that he had received three complaints, one from each of our barely visible adjacent neighbors. All on the same day. One at 11 a.m. The next one at noon. And – yep, you guessed it – the third at 1 p.m. Apparently the complaint was that our two small elderly dogs had been using their yards as bathrooms. There were dogs who did do that. They were large unattended dogs. One I recognized from a few doors down; most of the time I did not know them. I was always picking up after those dogs also. But even the county police officer acknowledged that we had a problem here with a bored out of work HOA president. He laughed about it. I didn’t see the humor. But I did know what this was about, and which husband was behind it (namely mine) and the political argument that had instigated the disdain.
Fast forward a couple of years and everything had changed. Christie was gone. Dad was gone. Now Oliver was deaf and blind and Hariat his constant protector. I was divorced, traumatized, and lived alone with both dogs. No living parents to appease, my brother now refused to speak to me. I had gone no contact with one sister. I had moved away from Manville. Yep. That house which I never named became known to me as Manville, after a horrible nightmare one night where I was stranded in a town of that name, fearing for my life.
Intuitively I have always felt a connection to every house I’ve ever lived in. I believe that, like a marriage, a third entity is created when these bonds are formed. It has a life all it’s own. We enter into a contract of care, and the commitment is not to be taken lightly. The home requires and deserves our attention and respect. It depends on us and in return it protects us. Treat it well and it will nurture our spirit.
A house becomes a home when we interact with it, when we feel safe there. When we express our gratitude for it. If we allow, it becomes a “thin place” where the veil between worlds is thin. I’ve moved twice in the dozen years since Manville. I cannot voice my gratitude without tears. I’ve since lost Oliver and Hariat and my brother. In my previous home I adopted a miniature beagle named Odie from the Kent County Animal Shelter, and I’ve since lost him. We agreed to take care of a Maine Coon cat named Chewy for a couple of months a couple of years ago. For over a year he and Odie were inseparable, and now it’s just me and Chewster. This house has enveloped us all, and a grieving adult son. This house deserves an affectionate moniker. This is the bright home in which I live.
Lately I feel like I’m stuck in a 1980’s Nickelodeon Opposite Sketch. You might have to have a middle-aged child to get that! Not this, nope, not that…no, thanks. All of a sudden nothing fits. I’m an outsider in my own life. It isn’t as if this strange phenomenon hasn’t occurred many times throughout the years; I’m sure you’ve experienced it also. It simply means we are growing mentally and spiritually, and our circumstances/home/work/relationships are not as natural as they once felt. We’ve slipped in our skin.
I knew this would happen because I have been ill. As I’ve disclosed recently I had a few rough weeks in August where I was quite sick – always a precursor to a big wake-up call. If you survive an illness, you will move through some transformation to do so. It’s similar to travel, although not as fun – if you’re as present as possible through the experience it will change you. That doesn’t mean I am consciously aware of what that healing means, at least not yet. But I’m noticing now that I don’t feel very attached to the past, to my life up to now. Everything is nebulous, kinda floaty, not securely grounded, fluid. That serves as a signal to pay attention. New opportunities will be revealing themselves as I move forward – but don’t make any fast moves. Respond softly. Remain reverentially curious.
Another way of describing this might be to say that I am letting go of everything and everyone and observing who stays, what stays, how things settle in the coming weeks and months. Sickness has an organic way of doing that. For right now at least, I’m less interested in efforting. What happens, happens. I have to drop expectations. For starters, I can’t expect anyone to get it. I don’t have the strength to hold up my end of any obligation, to show up any certain way…to be who you think I am. I want to live, and that’s about all I know today. What happens next remains to be seen.
Your opinion of me is none of my business. The politicians can manage without my input. The creditors will have to wait. The house isn’t clean. I’m empty. This is a good thing, this empty. It may sound dramatic, but I have a sense of renewal, of anticipation. It is time to re-evaluate priorities, set some new goals, be specific, focus. What do I want?! Where do I go from here…?
A Painterly Home 