Yesterday I talked about overcoming my defensiveness, because it is oppressive and debilitating. It keeps a contrived distance between you and life, between you and everything you want and need to feel safe.
Turns out grief is the key. The only authentic, meaningful way we are going to experience life is to spend it preparing for death. Our culture taught us to think that is obscene. That we deserve to be “happy” all the time. Suffering is optional. It isn’t.
There is a new shift in interior design language (remember, ultimately it will be the artists who save us) – which replaces the term “age in place” with “die in place.” The ultimate goal of all good design is not that you can age in your own home. It’s that you can die there.
We are going to have to include death and loss and grief in our common language. We are going to have to talk about it. Normalize the subject. Befriend that demon. It has to happen. Turns out, it’s the only dance in town. Step right up.
Only now, fast approaching 72, am I realizing that I have carried grief since early in childhood. There were many losses, and none of them were addressed, or “processed,” whatever that means. I acutely remember waking during the night as a child, maybe 6 or 7. I came down the stairs into the living room looking for help. I was afraid and sad. Mimi, my grandmother, was sitting on the sofa, and I ran to her and burst into tears. “What’s wrong, honey?” “I miss Blackie!” Blackie was my Cocker Spaniel who had simply disappeared one day. I was 5 or 6 when I named her, so, don’t judge.
Blackie and I had been sitting on the floor playing fetch. I was rolling the ball to her and teaching her to return it to me. She dropped it near my feet and it rolled under the sofa, and when I bent over to reach for it, she bit me on the face. I doubt she did it out of any malice. She was also reaching for the ball. I just got in the way. She was gone shortly after that. I can look back now, of course, and realize that my parents weren’t going to let that happen again, so she had to go. Where she went I will never know. I don’t remember the story I was told, but I was devastated. And it would never be spoken of again.
Neither would Mimi’s death years later. There was no funeral. Was she cremated? Is she buried somewhere? I’ll never know. The subject was forbidden. Certainly my dear Mother spent her lifetime grieving. Among so many losses, she lost her sister, her closest friend, in a car accident on my 23rd birthday. I never wanted to celebrate my birthday again, but my Mother wasn’t having it. She showed up wherever I was in my life, presents and cake in hand. By God, we were having a party. And Barb was never spoken of. She was my loss, too.
There are too many stories like that to tell. Just in my life alone. I’m sure there are in your life also. How did we get this so wrong? And we wonder why we’re a culture of addicts?!
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”
Well…almost all. Unless you’re an indigenous native…or gay…or black…or female…or…well, okay, unless you’re anything other than straight white male. And then, depending on your political affiliations, to be determined subject to the current balance of power…or…fuckall…
We children all stood obediently, put our right hand over our heart and repeated after our adoring teacher. In any other setting that ritual would be called indoctrination into a cult. The cult of nationalism has many sub-cults. The cult of school (yay, team), the cult of church. The cult of family. The cult of loyalty, unquestioned and unquestionable. Don’t you dare question. By the time we’re around the age of 10 (too generous? maybe 7?) we are gone. As in, so completely turned around and conditioned that we have no idea who we are. We do know what we stand for – because we have been told. God help us.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in these here United States. Let the celebration of genocide begin. That is not to say I am not grateful, because I truly am. I might be female, but at least I was born into a privileged white family. In a peaceful, free country. Might not have been the same United States you were born into. But let’s be honest, I’ve had many advantages. And much to overcome. I doubt my father would have been an abusive narcissist were he not born where and when he was. He certainly would not have had so many advantages, least of all a culture of protection around him to hide his psychopathy for 82 years. Talk about an invisibility cloak, phew! That worked well.
My mother died of liposarcoma at the age of 69. The oncologists refer to that cancer as “the anger cancer.” I suspect all cancer takes root in anger, but suffice it to say she died of repressed anger. I’ve told many times here about my memorable 16th birthday gift from her. She gave me two books: The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan and The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer. Was she trying to tell me something? Ya think? At least she made an effort. God knows she never had a chance of any freedom for herself. And I was so conditioned by then, I had only a smidgen more.
Had I not been born into privilege, in a relatively safe environment with abundant food and shelter, would I have ever have gained any insight into the underlying dysfunction? I’ll tell you what my family thinks: they think I am blatantly ungrateful. They couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m grateful for all the same things they are, and so much more. I’m just grateful for different reasons.
You see, I think they are living in a deadly and toxic state of denial. I think they are altogether unwilling to press pause on their insecurity button for just a little moment, long enough to consider – not accept, just consider – that they are not actually superior to everyone else. And so, they behave as if they are absolutely terrified of everyone around them all the time. They don’t leave the house without their gun. The world is a very scary place. It’s full of others.
I don’t envy them that position, although I have at times in the past. God knows most days I’d give anything for that previous naivete. For one more day back home with them all around the dining table on Thanksgiving, laughing. I didn’t know those were fields of gold.
I have often envied them the certainty of their convictions when I was questioning my own motives. When I was requiring myself to be as honest with myself as I possibly could bring myself to be about why I thought I might be smart enough to have figured something out.
I’m not. Smarter. I haven’t figured out shit. But I do have certainty of my convictions now. Not because I accepted what I was taught, but precisely because I have questioned it all and decided how to think and what to believe – beyond a shadow of a doubt. Insert belly-laughing emoji here.
What a mess we have created from fear. Of course, I’m neurodivergent, so conservative ass-holes seem to have everything backward from where I stand. And this grief I am going through recently comes with an equal measure of terror. Most of my fitful sleep is composed of my fighting for my life. Nightmares of my family trying to kill me aren’t new, but lately there are trained assassins after me. I’ve moved up in the world. Or they have. Now they can hire it done.
I’ll tell you what: fuck this shit. I’m determined to look the demons right in the eye and beat them at their own game. It’s freedom or nothing. Give me liberty or…
“Being an American means reckoning with a history fraught with violence and injustice. Ignoring that reality in favor of mythology is not only wrong but also dangerous. The dark chapters of American history have just as much to teach us, if not more, than the glorious ones, and most often the two are intertwined.” – Ken Burns
Chewy, aka Catlips, woke me with a loud howl at 4am, as he often does these days. And seemingly for no apparent reason. But once I had visited the loo and made sure the cat was alright, I sat to drink some water. You know that’s a medical thing, right? Always drink water when you wake. Neurologists tell us that trick would prevent many strokes, which occur most of the time during the night and upon waking, and are directly linked to dehydration. So, water upon waking is an easy habit to adopt.
Waking in the middle of the night is my normal anyway, and that’s not a new phenomena; it’s been lifelong. Probably a genetic thing from centuries of ancestors who would naturally have had the biphasic sleep patterns of farmers. Sleeping eight consecutive hours was unthinkable before the industrial revolution, when the factory shift workers needed to train their bodies to work under artificial lighting. It’s a conditioned pattern that served the wealthy white industrial magnates, and there is nothing natural about it. It was designed to keep you enslaved, and it works efficiently.
That established, when I wake I am not necessarily anxious to get back to sleep – now that I don’t work early in the morning. Nor do I make early plans or appointments if I can help it. I usually fall back to sleep and wake – still early, but again, shortly after daylight. Last night as I did some breathing exercises and then picked up the novel I was reading, I felt an ominous presence lurking around my bedroom door. I asked it to leave (in my mind), and felt confusion. So I did some healing rituals, such as lighting a sage candle, and snapping my fingers rhythmically while chanting. I stated adamantly that “if you are not of the light of Christ, be gone.” Learned that in childhood, too, and it works. The energy dissipated and I relaxed. So did the cat.
The cat and I have been together nigh on 7 or 8 years now. He did not come to me as a kitten, but already several years old. He’d been born of a feral cat a friend took in. He was stillborn and she peeled him from the sack, gave him CPR and mouth to mouth and revived him. According to his original vet he incurred some brain damage, a twisted colon and breathing difficulties. I had two elderly dogs when I agreed to foster him temporarily from his second owner, and the rest, as they say…
So he came already sporting the name Chewbacca, presumably because he didn’t meow so much as stutter. I certainly was not going to change his name. He had already been displaced twice. That, in and of itself, is enough trauma for any small creature, I think. I also think the name Chewy does not suit him at all, but names are assigned before we know someone well in the best of circumstances. So no blame, just observation. My darling Chewy is a regal character. And to my mind, angelic. He deserves a sophisticated nomer. His nickname is Catlips when he is being silly, and Chew de Monk when he is being zen.
Upon introducing him to my dogs, I explained to them that he was a) a guest who temporarily needed our kind assistance, and b) to be respected as such. Both of my dogs were rescue dogs, both sweet natured and well behaved. Hariat had come from a Pembroke Welsh Corgi rescue organization. All we knew of her was that she was 5 years old, certified purebred by the AKA, that she had been a working dog on a farm, and that her owner had entered hospice. She came with the name Ariat, named after a line of equestrian gear. At the time we got her my husband and elderly father were struggling to understand or pronounce her name. They were utterly confounded. I asked her how she would feel if I added an H to her name, and henceforth she became Hariat. Hariat was one of the dear canine loves of my life. She immediately had bonded with my older corgi, Oliver, as if they’d always been friends.
After losing Oliver only a few years later, we grieved together for about a year. And then Odie came into our lives. Also not a suitable name for such an extraordinary dog, but we kept it. Odie was an old miniature beagle at the county animal shelter who needed medical care and love. We went to meet him. Hariat nodded her approval. They were fast friends, though not like she and Oliver. Grief had changed her. When Hariat and Odie and I accepted Chewy into our home I wasn’t sure what to expect. For starters, I did not know if either of my dogs had ever known or lived with a cat. Fortunately, Chewy did not know he was a cat. He fit right in as if he’d always been here. He and Odie had some kind of instant bond and were inseparable from day one. Seems obvious they spoke a common language I am not smart enough to understand.
We lost Hariat and Odie about seven months apart during the pandemic. Hariat had brain lesions that were causing frequent seizures. Odie stopped eating one day and the x-rays showed his colon full of cancer. They were each about 15 years old, to the best of my knowledge. I was devastated. So was Chewy. To this day Chewy sleeps on Odie’s blanket, sits on his bed steps, and drinks from the large water bowl they used to put their faces in together. Whenever I take the bowl to the sink for washing and refreshing Chewy follows, anxious, and makes certain I put it right back where it came from. He doesn’t do that with his other bowl or his fountain.
I won’t be adopting another animal any time soon for a number of reasons. But mostly it’s because Chewy is an old man now and deserves devotion and showered attention. He gives far more than he gets. Only since we have been here alone has it become apparent that he watches over me at night. Once in awhile a wayward spirit wanders in and he howls to alert me.
Animals are so much more than we have ever given them credit for in our lives, let alone our culture. My goodness they are intelligent, sentient and worthy of the best care we can possibly provide. What a magnificent blessing they gift us with in so many ways.
Sound asleep, my sister would rock back and forth on her hands and knees and bang her forehead against the wall. It would wake me, and I would get up and go into her room and softly coax her back to laying down, tuck her in again, and go back to bed. My brother would regularly sleep walk while talking out loud. He would pace through the entire second floor where all of us five kids slept. It would wake me, and I would get up and gently walk him back to his bed and tuck him in. I was scared he would fall down the long staircase some night without my hearing him, but fortunately that never happened.
My parents bedroom was on the first floor at the opposite end of the house. They were either at a party, the bar, or passed out drunk. They never heard a thing. None of my four siblings ever remembered any of these instances that so terrified me. Did they think I made it up?
My brother died two years ago of an apparent heart attack in his sleep, at the age of 62. He had overcome alcoholism, drug addiction, and quit smoking – all cold turkey with no support. He was a remarkable person, but he was never able to quit a gambling addiction. And so he lived in abject poverty, working right up to his death and living in a rented room in the home of a coworker.
My sister knows for certain that his heart attack was caused by the Covid vaccine. She blames those good-for-nothing evil Democrats. Thank god we have RFK now to save us all, and a president who knows what is truly going on here – the spiritual war we are fighting for the redemption of mankind’s soul. In case you don’t know me, yes – I am being irreverently facetious. Also believe me when I say I really don’t get it.
I have three siblings still living. We barely keep in touch; we’re about down to reporting the obituaries of our mutual friends and relatives. We exchange emojis on holidays…you know, Happy 4th of July and all. As if we didn’t share the first 20 years of our daily lives. Suffice it to say we have nothing in common. Oh, we all five grew up in the same house. We all five had the same two parents. We went to the same schools, had many of the same teachers. We shared every holiday, the same music, all the vacations, the same four grandparents, we ate the same food. But we had very different childhoods. How does this happen?
Seriously, can someone please explain this to me?! Gabor Mate can theorize about it and I understand what he is saying, but my own experience just doesn’t jive. Hard as I try, I cannot reconcile our continued disparate realities.
I miss my family. I still miss us. I have no one to share the stories and the memories with. Meanwhile, my cells don’t seem to run dry of the endless tears. I’m old enough now to know they will come forever. And just wise enough to welcome them. Some days my grief will not be consoled, and still I am nothing but grateful for it all.
From their point of view, this separation in our worlds is entirely down to me. I’m the different one; the one who questions everything. The one who needs answers when obviously, there is no problem except my mental illness. This is on me; they do not suffer these imaginary indulgences. They figured it out long ago. They found Jesus. They are healed. How I envy them their conviction.
On the rare occasion when we do talk, I am guarded. If I slip and say the wrong thing I will be corrected, maybe even ghosted for a time. I am too much for them. Given time to reflect on the error of my ways, I realize I am wrong. To them. They love me, but they do not like me. They have no desire to connect, to understand me, to know me. And I have finally given up the need to be understood and accepted by them; I’m sure they’d say the same. That only took way too long.
Of us five children I am the eldest by 3 years. The four of them were born in close succession, four within six years. I was the first child, the first grandchild on both sides, and for over 3 years I enjoyed being the center of their attention and the apple of their eye. My siblings, like my father before them, will tell you that is why I am a narcissist.
Not in any effort to defend myself here (it’s my platform, after all…) I would aver that I prefer an evidence based model of reality. Or as I say to them, I choose my crazy. I value science and therefore neuroscience and psychology; I see no discrepancy between science and religion. My God is a quantum physicist and still, miraculously, maintains a sense of humor. My siblings refer to this rebellious misguidance as my “Jesus is just alright with me” spirituality, referring to the days when we all enjoyed a good spliff and some Doobie Brothers on Dad’s dime.
Here’s the thing, I guess…the evidence says to me that they live in vapid denial. There is no worse thief on the earth plane than denial. It has stolen our lives. It has taken everything from us. Everything except my hard-earned sanity.
Of the 7 of us in my family of origin, I am the only one who has not suffered the ravages of chemical addiction. Since my early 20’s I have not drank or smoked or used drugs. I tried them. You were a square and no fun and a snob in my family if you wouldn’t partake. I’d resist, hence my nickname, Little Goody Two Shoes. I remember a Sunday night during high school when my father ordered me to do a line and fill in at the Euchre table as they were down a player. I protested, explaining that I had a History final the next day, and he gave me his I’ll-knock-you-into-next-week look. “You can make it up!” Yes, sir.
Pardon me if I call that evidence. There are more stories like that than I will ever have time to tell. None of them were living their best life, but not for me to say. They all six struggled with homelessness, depression, addiction, all of their lives. A couple of them were grifters, committing fraud, and somehow narrowly dodging the law. I was called to provide bail and an alibi more than once. I learned to hide my valuable possessions. I wish I’d learned sooner to hide my heart.
The other side of this insane equation is that I also got so so so much from them. Each and every one of them were extraordinary people. They all were born with high IQ’s, enormous creative talent. Funny! Wow, I wish I had the quick wit of my mom, my brother, and my son. How does anyone think that fast?! They’d have gotten on well with Robin Williams! Had they been any less intelligent and charming they might have ended up in prison, but in fact they all had so much going for them. Yet they lived in poverty and pain. Denial does that, theirs or yours. Makes you a refugee in your own life.
My physician asked me to take the A.C.E. test a few years ago. You can take it here and compile your own evidence. I scored an 8.
First journal? Scrapbook? We were kids when we started, eh? With a diary in grade school. So, for me that was the 1950’s. Although I was drawing as soon as I could hold a pencil (per my mother), magazine tear sheets wouldn’t come into being until I was in high school in the 60’s. But once I discovered magazines a whole new world opened up, quite literally. The world became a much smaller place once it was delivered to the mailbox.
It began with Seventeen. Barbie grew up and dressed in Betsy Johnson. But it wasn’t long before art and shelter magazines like Metamorphosis and Architectural Digest and Rolling Stone broadened my horizons. And then The Sun.
Suddenly my life was too small. I couldn’t wait to leave the boring suburbs for real life in the city. Little did I know…I wouldn’t get too far too fast, probably a good thing. Family kept me close and I set aside the acceptance letters to RISD and Parsons and New York School of Design for Wayne State and Center for Creative Studies, known then as Arts and Crafts. It was across the street from the fabulous and inspiring DIA, to this day one of the best art museums in the country. It was my familiar stomping ground as I would often skip high school (I still got A’s & B’s) to spend the day roaming the galleries, dreaming and sketching. Other days you’d find me on the 13th floor of the J.L. Hudson Company, moving from vignette to vignette in the furniture and design department, imagining what I would do with that room.
It had never occurred to me that I would be anything but an artist or a writer. It wasn’t what I did; it was who I was. Fast forward five+ decades and I look back, longingly some days. At the life I sidestepped somehow, too young married and mothering and clambering for survival. The demons were lurking in the shadows, fighting amongst themselves for attention. They were not to be ignored. In retrospect, I wouldn’t trade any of it – but that realization happened just the other day. It’s a process, like me. I’ll have to keep you posted as to when I solidify.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (has that euphemism become old?!) some things have not changed much. I’m still obsessed with art and music and design. As I said, it is who I am. I was born this way. That’s why I keep insisting that you cannot miss your purpose. You don’t need to search for it; God hardwired it in. You can miss the option of different vocations – but your purpose is not a job. It’s who you are. It’s your calling. And spirit – your spirit – will nudge you toward happiness and fulfillment ceaselessly. Every day every day every day. You will realize yourself one way or another, sooner or later. And you will relax into being. You are whole. And holy. Right here, right now. Try to enjoy yourself already.
Okay, I admit, I am easily entertained. Although I’ve become increasingly pickier with age. Want my money, my time, my attention? That bar is high these days; it will remain so. My standards have been raised. Some people have the gall to tell me that my standards are too high. Others might say they had nowhere to go but up. However, I don’t much care what some might say anymore…
My criteria for acceptable entertainment (as well as information) has been refined, taste aside. I expect high quality in everything I take in, whether that be news, movies, television, music…or our relationship. And by quality, I mean on every level. My senses are going to be bombarded with the culture of sensationalism every day, so bring it. If I am going to watch, I want high quality cinematography. Listening? Crisp high quality sound while I’m weeding out the crap. No more perfumey candles to smell or scratchy fabrics against my skin. I’ve had to improve the quality of the food I eat if I want to be healthy – and isn’t that work these days?! Read the labels, research – and then pay more to have them leave the chemicals and the seed oils out. Even my cat deserves nothing less than the best quality food I can possibly afford.
Now in my 70’s, I’ve survived more than most people can imagine. A lifetime of narcissistic abuse and neglect, sexual abuse, physical abuse, financial abuse. I have walked through hell. I’ve watched – and felt – almost every person I’ve ever loved suffer through cancer and addiction. Now I watch my beloved child struggle from decades of absent adults, never present enough to protect him from the same ravages. My gorgeous, brilliant nieces and nephews – and their children now; living out the 4th generation of trauma. To say I have paid my dues is an understatement. The only thing I’m sorry for are all the years I wasted making compromises. Repeat after me: “All my debts are paid, seen and unseen.” And be absolutely certain of it.
Now – just now!, am I really getting to the good stuff of life. Droppin’ off the shame. I’m not made for that. Neither are you. So, no more apologies. No more begging to belong. We are everything we are meant to be.
“Be kind to me, or treat me mean. I’ll make the most of it; I’m an extraordinary machine.” – Fiona Apple
I’ve watched this real estate video more times than I can count. It’s been on YT for over 6 years now, and I return to it every so often, just to get re-inspired.
Deep down inside, don’t we all want to live at “summer camp for adults?” Where the living is slow and easy. I’ve only been to Nantucket once. I instantly felt completely at home, as though I’d always been there. One night waiting to eat dinner at a bar, I met a young woman resident who made her living as a decorative painter. It’s a good thing a table became available quickly – I was just about to ask her for a job…never to return to America, as the locals call the mainland. I could just as easily have stayed and never looked back.
That is where all of my fantasy novels start. As a child the books I wrote (literally, on folded used paper that I sewed together) were all about horses and farms and life at the lake and solving mysteries. But all of the novels I’ve written as an adult still remain in my head. And they all begin with a woman disappearing from her life and beginning anew in a strange place. Like Anne Tyler’s Breathing Lessons, or Silvio Soldoni”s Bread and Tulips, the protagonist woman has become invisible to her family and friends. It’s depicted perfectly in the series The Marlow Murder Club, but this time Becks Starling finds a new life when she discovers a new calling as a sleuth.
New calling or new location, every woman who has ever been responsible to and for anyone else- in other words, every woman – soon discovers that she is invisible to those she cares for. Innocently most of the time, they have slipped into being dependent on her. The more responsibility she handles, the more responsibility they lay at her feet. She becomes the invisible cog that keeps the machine running smoothly. And she begins to fantasize about a different life, one where she is free...
Believe me, I’ve planned my escape to the nth degree. I’d be far less happenstance about it than any fictional character. No one would ever find me. I know myself just well enough to know how to disappear from here and reappear elsewhere unrecognizable.
But here’s a big clue: as far as location is concerned, I’m right at home where I am living now. A small village on the west coast of Michigan is as close to the NE coast of the country as I’m likely to get in this life. And other than those 2 places, I might feel at home in Great Britain or Ireland. Give me vast deep water, a cold, damp climate and pine trees. You can have the rest of the planet.
And to further dispel any mystery about me: my dream life is single and my dream home is shingled. An old Cape with wide pine floorboards. Collections of dishes and colorful artwork. I entertain friends and family at Sunday brunch while the dog and cat sleep on the hearth. As I’ve always been fascinated with architecture and the fine art of interior design, there are inspirational stacks of design books in every room for spontaneous perusal. And I almost forgot – every bathroom has a window, for Heaven’s sake! Who thought it was okay to omit windows from bathrooms?! Same plonker who thinks open floor plans are acceptable for humans, maybe. One more detail: there will always be rock and roll. Okay, that’s it for today. Carry on…
“People without a sense of humor will never forgive you for being funny.” – Joyce, The Thursday Murder Club
In my fantasy life I host a writer’s group once a month. Or maybe we pretend to be a book group or a writer’s group but we really solve murders. We gather around my gorgeous little antique dining table in the upholstered rattan chairs and talk and ponder all afternoon. We have tea, coffee, perhaps a sip of prosecco. We open little party gifts we’ve made or collected for each other, and we eat cucumber sandwiches and scones with lots of cream…someone falls asleep out on the veranda in the chaise lounge. It’s just a little nap. Some drooling might occur, but no one will hold it against you.
They love coming to my home, because, well, let’s face it – I know how to entertain. And put together a list of suspects. No one leaves hungry, and everyone leaves excited and hopeful and full of new ideas. It will be hard to sleep tonight.
In my actual life, a dear friend is moving into a new apartment in a retirement community, as did another friend not long ago. I’m experiencing pangs of jealousy. First of all, I love being old. Helen Mirren said “the best part of being over 70 is being over 70.” So hanging out with peers is ever so appealing. Young people just don’t get it. I want no-holds-barred brutally honest communication – and I also want to be home in my pajamas by 8.
All of my adult life I’ve wanted for nothing more than a big, raucous house full of family and friends. Kids and grandkids, constant coming and going. Music playing and spontaneous dancing and laughter and laughter and laughter. And a private office off my bedroom with a door that locks when “I vant to be left alone.“
That was my childhood home, and I spent the last 50 years of my life trying to recreate it. But it wasn’t real. It was a sham. My childhood home was also hiding terrible neglect and abuse and dysfunction. The big loud happy home was just for show. My parents wanted the happy home, too; they also didn’t know how to make it happen. They didn’t know how to face the addiction demons. Neither was I going to be able to create the life I wanted; I had not a clue how to go about it. And so shame tends to creep into my dreams and cloud my sleep. When I wake I feel entirely like a failure. Where did I go wrong?
That’s where the deep sense of failure stems from: I’m smart…but not smart enough to have figured this out when I was younger. To have stopped trying to please everyone else and keep everyone else safe; to have known that survival mode will never get you where you want to go. I was slow to understand that love is not transactional, nor negotiable. I wasn’t just quite smart enough to know that we really cannot earn our way to health and happiness…to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I AM already everything I could possibly dream. My loyalty and devotion were misplaced outside myself.
And now I have lived long enough to know the privilege of looking myself in the mirror and asking, “IS that what you really wanted? Or perhaps, is there something far more valuable to be gleaned here?” And now I can let myself fall apart at the seems. I grieve the life I spent trying to fulfill a fantasy that, in fact, I would not choose now. Now that I belong to myself.
“Hope is a renewable option: If you run out of it, at the end of the day, you get to start over in the morning.” – Barbara Kingsolver
Do we all fantasize about an out-of-the-blue inheritance from a long lost aunt or uncle? I do. But in my real life, I’ve had exactly the opposite experience. My Dad’s dad, Russell, was a second generation Irish immigrant. His family settled here in the Traverse City area, but during the automobile boom he moved to Detroit for factory employment. My father was a teenager by then and he and my mother would become high school sweethearts.
By the time I was a teen my grandparents had retired to Florida, but I remained close to my grandfather’s sister, my great Aunt Edith. As I grew older I would come to understand that my parents were not close to her. My Mother particularly, although my Mother was an angel incarnate and never complained or said a bad word about anyone. I would always make sure Aunt Edith, who was alone, was invited to all the holiday dinners and family events. My parents were always polite and accepting.
Aunt Edith and I would come to blows early in my adult life. She did not approve of me at all. I divorced my abusive alcoholic husband for starters. That was not allowed in her church. To make matters worse, I had “colored” friends. And they visited my home – in the same neighborhood where she lived, no less! I was the one who was ruining the neighborhood. And I was a smart aleck. When she was berating me, I asked her exactly what kind of Christianity they were teaching in that church of hers, and she actually threw a bible at me.
When Aunt Edith passed away she left a three million dollar estate to her next of kin, her brothers. She had inherited that money from her estranged husband (at least she wasn’t divorced!) who owned a string of shady motels along 8 Mile Road during Detroit’s boom years. But that’s a story for another day. Edith’s four brothers had preceded her in death, including my grandfather. Her brother’s children would inherit from her, of which my father was one fifth. Because I was the only remaining member of my family who had any contact with her the attorney had to enlist me to help him find her nephews. They were scattered around the country and in fact she had never met most of them. None of them had seen or heard of her in decades. I was the only one who had any idea where they lived. In my youthful naivete, I had asked Aunt Edith to talk about her family to me. I wanted to know.
And so, those cousins I had never met inherited money from a long lost aunt they had never known. My father lived in Florida at the time, under an alias, as he was hiding from the law. His children would never see a dime of that money; my guess is it all went up his nose.
I was the only member of my immediate family named in Aunt Edith’s will. She left me $1500. and her personal belongings, including her 20 year old car – which my father insisted on buying from me. He reneged once I handed him the title. “Well you didn’t pay for it, so why should I pay you?” he said. He continued to badger me for her belongings until one day I said, “Dad – I have nothing left to give you unless I start making payments to you out of my own earnings.” He hung up on me, and it would be over 20 years before I’d hear of him again.
My favorite British streaming service has a new series that premiered this week, Irish Blood. It tells the story of a woman who inherits a home on an Irish loch from her estranged father. She inherits his troubles as well, and has to deal with the criminal thugs he was involved with. Similarly, I did inherit my father’s troubles. Newly divorced with a young toddler, we lived in the suburbs of Detroit. I was being harassed by federal agents looking for my Dad. Men in black suits would wake me pounding on the door late at night demanding to know his whereabouts – which fortunately I did not know.
I’m out of aunts and uncles and parents and a brother and most of my cousins. I’m the old matriarch now, and I’m still waiting for the house on an Irish loch.
Terribly neglected, Catlips woke me at 4:30. His bowl was empty. I gave him a quick little spit of his soft food, hit the loo, and headed back to bed. His highness let me sleep until after nine. That felt luxurious. I love waking naturally when my body has decided it is done dreaming for the night. That is one of the greatest pleasures of no longer getting up for work every morning, and I do not take it for granted.
Another of life’s greatest pleasures is coffee. Admittedly, I am an addict. I began drinking coffee around the age of 4 or 5, when I would beg my parents to share this magic elixir. Watered down with lots of cream and sugar I suppose, I was immediately hooked. Anyone who knows me knows that I wish everything tasted like strong coffee…maybe with some milk, hold the sugar. As I used to order it, “blonde and bitter – like me.” Since my hair is white now I can no longer get away with that.
But lately, ill with pancreatitis after passing gallstones, I have not been able to enjoy coffee. I haven’t been able to enjoy much actually. This morning I am feeling better and I am having a cup of coffee. The morning is sunny and cool, the cat sleepy, and life is good. Splendid, in fact.
And I am going to enjoy my coffee while indulging in my not-so-secret guilty pleasure of watching house tours. Bed ridden and searching for entertainment this past month, I’ve been down the interior design rabbit hole. Three weeks ago one of my favorite YT channels featured a writer’s home. I love anything to do with books and writers. Enter the bestselling author, Mary Kay Andrews, “Queen of the Beach read”, as she’s known. She doesn’t drink coffee, but I guess I like her anyway.
I’ve now read 3 of her novels in the past couple of weeks. She is not a literary giant like my favorite authors, Joan Didion and Toni Morrison. But she isn’t trying to be like them; and admirably, she’s a savvy businesswoman. Her stories contain some history and mystery, yes, but are also given to include romance. Romance doesn’t interest me, but we’ll forgive her that also, shall we? They are quick, easy reads, well written and enjoyable when I’m unable to concentrate and need short increments of distraction. But her home, well…that is another story. I’m obsessed.
Now I follow her on IG also. Of course she is a thinking woman, which to my mind means politically liberal. Outspoken and so creative. She reminds me of my southern Mimi, my maternal grandmother, who had a fabulous sense of style. And also of my Mom who had a great wit, such a warm smile, and curly red hair all her life. Mary Kay Andrews and I are the same age. Both animal lovers. Jesus wants her to have nice things. She’s been told she’s messy and she talks too much. Ditto. Let’s not even talk about our china hoarding issues. She speaks my language; we have a lot in common. And I am enchanted by her humor, taste and charm. Unbeknownst to her, she just might be my new best friend.
A Painterly Home 