Category Archives: grief

Jul31

empty and free

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Part 2 of 3:

Just in the past week I’ve had three different friends ask me why I seem angry all the time. I’m not angry. I’m enraged. But I did not respond. Each time I was taken aback. Had I responded, there could only be one thing to say: “why aren’t you?” My recently triggered rage is both personal and collective. Isn’t it always? Isn’t it always…

There are sometimes weeks on end when I think I’m doing just fine. No rage in sight. Although it’s been months and months and endless months now of this confounded sadness. And then my dear friend, listening intently to me rage on and on, asked me what was beneath all this? And bless her, she listened to the answer. Not what she was expecting, I’m sure. To her credit, she didn’t say what most say. She’s so way smarter than most people I know.

Go ahead now, tell me life isn’t fair. Life was never meant to be fair. And then, you rage-less enlightened soul, you – you tell me why that’s okay with you. Go ahead. Just stand over there when you say it.

In the mid 1970’s I bought a paperback copy of the Gnostic Gospels at the Mayflower Bookstore in Berkley, Michigan. Might have actually paid my (now) friend as, come to find out, she was working there about that time. I remember reading the passage where Christ teaches the Lord’s Prayer, telling his disciples that it is the only prayer they need to know. Something in my body knew that was the truth, and I have said it every day since. I am not a religious person, but every line of that simple prayer gives us direct instruction as to how to live life, not least of which is “on earth as it is in heaven.” Now tell me again how life is not fair. And again, for all we plebs in the back, why is that okay with you?

Do not ever say that again. Not to me, not to anyone. It smacks of shallowness and a complete and utter negation of responsibility. You have a responsibility here. ON EARTH. As it is in heaven. Behave accordingly.

Easy for me to say. I talk a good game. I’m still struggling to give up bacon. But here’s the thing I’m just waking up to: creating heaven on earth isn’t complicated or even difficult. Can I change the world? Can I make an impact in my lifetime? Can you?

The answer is yes, but it doesn’t mean what you believe it means. It has nothing to do with protest marches or changing the government or saving polar bears. That is not your department. You are part of the problem itself, not the solution – unless you show up free, as in: “in the world but not of it.”

Heaven is not waiting for you to get your shit together. It is not waiting for you to make enough money or find the right partner. You’ll be glad to know heaven is not waiting for you to realize you are enough. It isn’t waiting for me to get my roof replaced, although it feels that way when it rains. Heaven doesn’t care if you are Mother Teresa or Adolf Hitler. And it sure as fuck is not waiting for you to fix it. It IS waiting right here on the lee shore, waiting for you to surrender. Anytime I am feeling attached to any outcome, I am holding heaven at arm’s length. Or as I say, “I’ll be with you in a moment…” Take a number, God.

The way to experience healing, yours and ours, is to be entirely present. My friend did that with me on the road trip to Detroit. She breathed in my rage and she breathed out compassion. In…and out…and it had nothing to do with the injustices I was reporting. I was telling her about the things foremost in my mind, about the horrible abusive unfairnesses of my life. It isn’t that they aren’t real or didn’t happen or don’t matter. They matter to me a great deal, and she knows that. She has her own injustices swirling around inside her. They’re in our blood and our DNA, and they are personal – as they should be. Let’s not pretend we aren’t in this mess together, and let’s stop pretending this isn’t personal.

On earth as it is in heaven means all sentient life has equal rights. PERIOD. No stipulations. We all have clean water, plenty of food, the best healthcare known to man. Can I make this happen? Of course not. But I can choose to live free of fear. I can choose to live in a state of possibility. And so can you. And I swear to you, it is our only hope. It is the only way we will ever realize heaven. I have some questions for you: what if life WERE fair? What if it were meant to be fair? What does that look like? What is life like on that earth?

I am older than you know, and I will be waiting for you on the lee shore.

Jul30

black road double yellow line

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Part 1 of 3:

It’s been 10 days since I last posted. I promised you a report of my fast road trip downstate to the Detroit Book Festival. Obviously that didn’t happen. Oh – the road trip did, the report did not. The past week was a whirling dervish dance of out of town company, obligations and activities. It included finishing an application to try to secure some financial help getting my leaking roof replaced and getting bids from contractors. That has been an ongoing process the past few months with almost no response. Or short responses after weeks of paperwork and inquiries: “we have no funding.” As Pooh says to Rabbit, “I s-u-s-p-e-c-t something.”

I’ve completed more paperwork in the past few months than it took to get a mortgage. Turns out being poor is a full time job. Also turns out determination is my middle name. I’m not one to give up easily. I believe it was Mark Victor Hanson who said, “Ask and you shall receive, so ask, ask, ask, ask, ask….” That is not a habit I am comfortable or familiar with. But ya know, life is for learning.

When my siblings were indoctrinated into the cult of fundamentalism they all wore bracelets with W.W.J.D. on them. In case they inadvertently forgot who they were following I guess. Smart aleck that I have always been, I got myself one of those bracelets. But mine stood for: What Would Joni Do?

Joni Mitchell narrated my adolescence and young adulthood. She kept my heart afloat in a toxic sea. Thank God for Joni. And Joan Didion. And Germaine Greer, Gloria Steinem. Thank God for Shirley Chisholm. Those were my influencers.

Now I say that in retrospect – as if I weren’t unconsciously under the influence of the cultural norms I grew up with in the 1950’s and 60’s. Within a year of graduating high school I would marry a mean, raging alcoholic like my father was. I was a walking talking statistical average. And although I would never stop trying to break free of those patterns, I would follow them again and again and again – believing each time would be different. It would not be until the age of 60 that I would even begin to get free.

Oh, I believed I was free. Because I was a rebel, don’t-cha-know, a free thinker. Nope; not even close to free from the influences of my family and culture. Not even close.

You see, the problem with beliefs is that they are false prophets. You are fooled into thinking you are free if your beliefs are strong. I’m here to tell you the bad news: your beliefs are keeping you stuck. You’ll want to get underneath that shiny layer of confidence and rustle up those loose cuticles in your armor. Into the murky, messy, uncomfortable waters of your unconscious. Because you didn’t invent your beliefs – you accepted them. Before you were old enough to have any awareness that you were doing that. And they all serve one outcome: keep you mired in the past.

Every time you get upset (so, about 15 times a day for me) – BINGO! – you just found a belief. It has been hiding for decades and you just found it. Treasure! Every upset is a set-up. That’s what we are here for! That’s the privilege of a human incarnation in earth school! The tuition here is outrageous. Guaranteed you will not live long enough to pay off the use of your body (lab fees) – so you’d might as well make the most of it. Now mine that treasure for all it is worth. “I’m upset because…I believed….” And, as another influencer in my life, Jack Boland, would say, “as day follows night…” it will appear. Show up like the answer in the magic 8 ball.

And you will be shocked. You will be shocked and enraged at what you have accepted as truth when it was nothing of the sort.

Over the next few days I will tell you all about my road trip to Detroit. I’m still mining the gold it uncovered, from anticipation to recovery. While driving fast on an open highway feels a lot like freedom, I held one of my dearest friends hostage in the passenger seat and splattered her with the chaos of my confessions. She was a captive audience to the grief I am outgassing these last several months. Thank God for her. She was forced into the role of therapist and she rose to the occasion as if she were my own personal superhero influencer. There is no amount of money in the world that could compensate her for the healing of her loving presence; that was priceless. I pray each of you find a friend like her, although I implore you don’t kidnap her in a speeding car.

Jul14

confusion has it’s cost

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7/11, 11:01am

And so, home now with the day ahead free of obligation, I can sit here and review my week. Something I have yet to define has me feeling like something big just happened. Something life changing, just in the past 72 hours. And I know what started it: the book I am reading – Permission by Elissa Altman. Specifically, the chapter titled The Magic in the Mundane. It – she – has given me permission to be mundane.

“In the most mundane stories lie humanity. It is where the magic is, where the stories lurk, where the most stunning and affecting art is waiting to be made. It is where joy and sorrow and the absurd and the human are plaited together in a tight braid…forget perfectionism: the mundane reeks of imperfection, and that imperfection is what makes for beauty of a human sort.”

If you read the last few days posts you’ll know that I walked out on my job last Thursday. There wasn’t anything wrong or bad happening there. There wasn’t much happening there at all. I didn’t need to be there. It was a distraction from what I need to be doing. I need to be here. It has taken me 73 years, 5 months and 4 days to get here.

You may begin to see a theme running through all the posts of this week. Perhaps it will continue, but I am not about to predict the future – I still have the rest of my life ahead of me, after all.

In January of 2012 I participated in a 13 week group study of The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It would prompt me to start this blog. A woman I had never met before sat across from me in the circle and commented on something I had said – or maybe written – in response to one of the exercises. She exclaimed, “Oh my gosh – you’re a writer.” For some reason I thought of that today, and what it meant to me at the time. I was shocked and somewhat confused. I didn’t believe her. Until this past Thursday. Fourteen years later. Is it too late? Apparently not. I’m still here. Or perhaps I should say, I’m here now.

Elissa Altman pulled me aside last Thursday in the bookstore, in that little back tarot-card-reading-room closet. Families of tourists scurried outside the mysterious curtain that provided no privacy for my tears. She let me know quietly that, yes, my family also taught me that perfectionism was the only way to avoid shame. And she let me know that it wasn’t working. It wasn’t keeping the shame at bay. Not the grief. Not the sorrow. “Go home,” I heard her whisper.

And so I am home now. I slept all day Friday. And all night, until the nightmares woke me. This morning, Saturday, my son asked if I had been having nightmares last night. “Why, yes. Why do you ask?” “Because you were standing outside my bedroom door early this morning calling out to me for help.” I wasn’t there physically. But my spirit was.

I used to write poetry. In high school my English teacher submitted one of my poems to a student contest with The Atlantic and it was published…I guess I could say I’m a published author. But I won’t. That same year I also won my second honorable mention in The Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards. And then I left school. A couple of college teachers acknowledged my writing, encouraged me. One invited me to skip a year. But then I left school again.

Schoolwork was too difficult to maintain with a full time job and a baby and a household to run. And an abusive husband who was closer to my abusive family than I had ever been. If I were to believe them, I was crazy still and again. That pattern had begun in the very early years of my life. And it would continue until last Thursday.

I’ve lost most of my family now. Divorced more than once. I’m estranged from most of my remaining family and many well-meaning friends. I am not easy to get along with. Most perfectionists aren’t, especially the ones wallowing in the shame of unexpressed creativity.

My father was not a good man. He was funny. Creative, charming. He was brilliant but uneducated, gay in a time and culture where it was never to be revealed, or even remotely tolerated. Permission was not granted him. And he was enormously gifted as a musician. He was also married at nineteen and had 5 children by the age of 29. He would enter the family business whether he liked it or not. All of his rage would come out sideways. It always does. Of his 5 children I have fared the best, with the least damage. I am the eldest by more than 3 years, first grandchild on both sides. Not only was I adored as a young tot, but my parents addictions were not yet in full swing. The dream was still intact.

The opposite of perfect is not flawed. The opposite of perfect is free. This is not a story about what could have been. It is a report about what is becoming. A PSA of sorts, a heads up. It is a story of endless curiosity and hope and never ending love. It’s my story. Maybe some part of it is also yours. I say we tell it, no matter how long it has taken us to get here.

Jul13

unemployable

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7/11, 9:05 am

My dear fiend has been ill. I texted her yesterday and she responded to tell me she was in the ER. It’s that horrible parasitic yuk going around western Michigan right now. Kinda scary. She called me back later once she was home and feeling better, after a few hours on a gurney with IV fluids. And sick as she was, she still managed to be her usual gracious self. I admire her so for that. I am not that, especially when I am sick. Or stressed, which has been much too often lately.

She always seems to have a gift for me. Yesterday it was a great big juicy gift. Infinitely useful. I told her I was losing my wits, and she assured me I will be okay. Told me I have “hippie wits.” “What?” Did she just make that up? Yes, yes she did. How wonderful. I will always have my wits about me now; I can keep those. I’m not crazy. I’m just a hippie. Which is to say that I have solid values. Trustworthy values.

And then, just coincidently (if you believe in those) Terry Tempest Williams shows up in my feed. Talkin’ about how we – women of a certain age – have been culturally programmed to think we are crazy. Witless. For most of my life it was the most powerful word used against me as a gaslighting technique. No…no no no no…anything but crazy. Crazy people are unacceptable. Weird. Never okay. Unloveable. Broken.

But it turns out that not only are we not crazy, we are fabulous. Smart. Creative. Genius. And spectacularly alive. We are good, we are beautiful, and we are true. We are very certainly sane and we are transforming an insane world. It turns out we are the holy ordinary. Albeit, unemployable.

Jul12

the ethics of soul saving

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“Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage.” – Rilke

7/11, 7:38 am.

Just once. Maybe that’s all it takes. I was at my recent workplace taking a break. Sitting in a back room, I opened the book I had been reading to the next chapter, The Magic in the Mundane. I would finish those twelve pages and pack up my things, say my goodbye as graciously as possible and leave. Sure, I’d been thinking about it, but I hadn’t realized that today would be my last day until I read about it just then. Elissa Altman was speaking to me, and I happened to be listening.

This week I will be making a series of posts here that include some longer videos. Because healing. Maybe healing requires longer videos. I can promise you one thing this week – there is a consistent theme. I am a consistent theme these days: no matter your age, there is no time to waste. Forgive me my sudden sense of urgency. It might be my age, or maybe my rebellious nature. What a good friend calls my hippie wits. I don’t care. I fucking love my hippie wits. I’m no longer explaining myself or dissecting my psyche. My reality no longer requires justification nor explanation – and neither does yours. I am giving us permission. We are a lot of things, crazy is not among them. That’s tomorrow’s conversation, however. Today we visit with Anne Lamott and Elissa Altman. Because healing.

And healing means that I am no longer treating my grief as a pathology. Grief, fear, shame..whatever. Let’s build an altar for all the angels and demons. Let’s honor it all. And then let’s burn that candle and go live.

Jun28

healing is as healing does

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4:10 PM; Saturday, June 27th. I’ve just awakened from a much needed nap. A couple of hours ago I took Tylenol and magnesium tincture and laid down with my feet elevated. I’m sore. I’ve been pushing all week to catch up on the yard work, which I’m about a month behind on. It’s daunting, much like the snow in winter. It needs to be tackled almost daily to stay on top of it.

I’ve divided my lawn into 5 sections. Each section is approximately the size of your yard if you’re a normal person. Which is to say, if you live in a town or suburb where you have a front yard that extends out about 20 feet to the street, and a back yard that extends out to meet your neighbor’s fence. This is not that.

This property is almost an acre – and it is the smallest property in this rural area. Three sides of it is on a 30 to 45 degree angle – all lawn. Who thought that was a good idea?! I always thought I would plant the hillsides with ground cover. Or lavender. The budget has never existed for that.

So, I can only mow one section of my yard on any given day due to the fact that I am old and decrepit. And trimming along the fence and the flower beds with the string trimmer is another day for each section. So 10 days to catch up. I’m six days in and if I live another 4 days I will keep you posted.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (this is a mid-century modern ranch), I’m thinking it may be time to move to something more easily maintained. Maybe I’ve got one more move in me. I’ll also keep you posted about this process. I am one of the many aging seniors who are house rich and cash poor. I don’t know if I can afford to move. I do know that I can no longer afford to pay a lawn service. Hence, the new diet and exercise program: eat less and mow more. Because, if you know me at all, I am the kinda gal who willfully turns adversity into advantage. Go team.

At this moment in time, I am tentatively beginning to love my life again. It was a long, dark winter. It was, quite literally, a dark and stormy night. It just happened to last six months. But sunlight and warmth and nature are true healers, and today I sit here looking out over the rolling hills and treetops through dappled sunlight and feel like I won the lottery. I feel like I can breathe again.

I miss my dogs, who I originally bought this house for. I miss the friends I’ve lost. I miss my family. I miss my cat. I’ve begun to consider that I might adopt again. I miss the joy they fill the house with. Maybe I could open my heart once more. I also miss all the many lives I’ve already lived in this lifetime. I’m not the same person anymore. But here’s the thing about unhappiness: after a while it stops being interesting.

Jun20

…all your life

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Saturday 6/20, early a.m…very, very early…

The souvenir heart says, “It’s never too late to fly.” These days life feels like I am less of a blackbird, however, and more of a Phoenix. Rising from the ashes of burnt bridges. Many, many burnt bridges. I look back over my life and think I must have flown – or run swiftly – over those bridges and took one last, gigantic leap at the end of every naive effort. Don’t look back now. Somehow I landed on my feet again and again and again.

Let’s face it, I had a lot of support. Was it despite my arrogance or because of my determination? Best not ask. We all have our noble indignities. We still believe we can best this process of constant change, of the body’s disintegration. We will outrun it as long as we can. What choice have we as we age? Every morning I say “Thank you” before my feet hit the floor. I stand before I walk, make sure both feet are firmly under me. I am aware of my surroundings before I move forward. I don’t take anything for granted anymore, not even my uprightness.

As many of you will know, I have always had a strong affinity to birds. They show up to me and for me. Years ago driving home from work, I came around a curve and had to brake suddenly for an eagle in the road. Standing in the middle of my lane, looking up at me – perhaps first in fright, but once I had come to a full stop it just stood there. Neither of us moved an iota. It was a back country lane and traffic was unlikely, so I closed my eyes and told it that it was safe now. I would wait with it. I also knew the local rapture rescue to call for emergency help if needed. It stared in at me for a few minutes, then turned in the direction I was headed and took flight, bidding me to follow. Had it just needed a moment? Or did it come to delay me on my way so that I might proceed safely? I certainly proceeded more wide awake.

You might all be tired of hearing me go on about how I’ve been grieving. It has been deeper and lasted longer than I have ever known, and at almost 73 years old, I’m not sure it will ever let go. I won’t ever be the same, that’s for sure. Sitting at my kitchen table Tuesday I was missing my cat. So I spoke to him.Yes, out loud. I told him that I’ve been thinking about moving. “What would you think? I’d have to leave your bones buried out back on the hill.” “I’m not using them.” Hahahaaa…at least he didn’t say “idiot.” At that exact second a hummingbird flew at high speed – right up to the window in front of my face. Like it had been dispatched and told to hurry! I actually jumped up, it came so fast out of nowhere. It stopped an inch from smacking into the window and hovered, looking in at me.

So I Googled “hummingbird spiritual meaning.” “Hummingbirds symbolize joy, resilience, and the sweetness of life. Because they can hover, fly backward, and move with agile precision, they are symbols of emotional healing after periods of grief or stress.” The cat was telling me to move on.

All your life…you were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Jun16

it’s all a stretch these days…

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Monday, 6/15: Good morning. I’m gonna change up the format here a bit. Since it’s basically always been a journal, let’s go with a journal format, beginning with the date…but all bets are off. Consistency is not a virtue I claim. I aspire. I’m…ya’ know, aspirational. It is a gorgeous summer morning. It is sunny and cool. Fifty-three degrees. It reminds me why we live in Michigan. But Michigan is not for everyone…it’s an “if you know, you know” kinda thing.

Detroit is the same. What an absolutely magnificent city. But if you know, you know. As a young woman I couldn’t wait to leave, but it was never because I didn’t love Detroit. It was because I wanted to live away from my highly dysfunctional family. Well, I wanted to raise my son away from them. And while I am very happy to be living “up north,” I will always miss Detroit. You can take the girl out of the city…

Growing up in Detroit was one of those “right place, right time” things. Born in the early 50’s, I became a teen in the 60’s. Detroit was the U.S. center of the British Invasion of rock in the 1960’s. And I was there for it. I was a sponge for it. I was growing up in a musical family, and as I’ve often said, my parents were beatniks in the 50’s who became hippies in the 60’s. I was the flower child.

I’ve also talked here a lot about being a privileged white girl in Detroit in the 1960’s. And having a conscience, thankyougod. Let’s just say, it shaped me. It would not make my life easier. Naive and 13, we were on one of our many summer getaways with our big-ass Chris Craft cabin cruiser to Georgian Bay, Canada. If you know, you know. It is one of the most spectacular places on the planet. We would use the depth sounder to check how deep the water was at our mooring, often off the beach of some deserted little island. We would watch the fish swimming thirty feet below us as we scooped up a pitcher of water to make orange juice or coffee. We had somehow stumbled into heaven, never suspecting we might not be worthy.

Bored in Tobermory harbor one stormy afternoon my younger sister and I walked into town, where I bought my first-ever record album. Not only did Joni Mitchell sing like no one I’d ever heard, but she had also drawn the jacket cover. Song to a Seagull caught my eye because it looked a lot like my fantastical drawings. Little did I know my life would never be the same.

Fast forward (hahahaa!) another six decades and here we are, you and I…talkin’ trash and livin’ our best life. Have I mentioned how grateful I am? I would try to articulate this sentiment, but then I would turn to a mush puddle and not be able to type through the tears. That’s me these days. Hence, the month-long hiatus since my last post.

Life continues to unfold and reveal it’s many complex layers. I can barely keep up. Is this progress? Who TF knows…it feels like a loop. A loop of grief and addiction with brief glimpses of joy. Is that joy? Would I recognize joy if it bit me?! Today I sit here in dappled sunlight looking out through the trees in a state of absolute delight and possibility. Yesterday I was sick and in a state of dread. Did I mention that consistency and I are not natural companions?

I had big plans for yesterday. A long ta-da list. But I woke with a migraine. Nauseous. Stiff joints and sore muscles. Where did this come from? I had been working outdoors in the garden the previous day, and I had been stung. It could just as easily have been caused by something I ate that day. The raspberries I put on my yogurt were just beginning to mold but I couldn’t stand to lose them. I live on that edge between blissful wellness and painful incapacity. It’s called chronic illness for a reason. So yesterday was a lost day. I sipped electrolytes, ate tiny bites of dry sourdough toast and stayed in my dark, cool bedroom.

But these days I have a job. I hate having a job. Oh, I love my work. It’s the schedule I resent. Having to be up and out of the house (preferably dressed) and then drive 40 minutes to get anywhere. Regardless of how I feel. Take Sumatriptan if necessary, but show up. Because consistency counts. I was loving retirement. I will again. Life threw another curve ball that I was ill prepared for, and now I face a new challenge: find a new way to earn income. So you’re 72?! Buckle up, buttercup. You live in Michigan, and Michigan is part of the good ol’ USofA….

Honestly, this is very likely good for me, being forced to get dressed and leave the house on a schedule. With the inconsistency of ADHD, and it’s sister component lack of discipline, a little imposed structure usually serves me well. It stimulates creativity and I am forced to overcome my preference to hide; forced to engage with others. As in people. Ugh. Present company excepted.

During this past month, I’ve been overwhelmed with grief and…well, despair – for lack of a better word. I guess I must admit despair. It has been a long 6 months of winter filled with grief. I am depressed. Getting out and driving through gorgeous countryside will do me good. I have reconnected with a dear old friend, who gave me work immediately without question when I called for help. And I’ve also met some very nice people. I certainly cannot complain. How fortunate I am when I get out of my own way. Honestly, are we all our own worst enemies?

I’m beginning to engage with life again. One new rabbit hole I’d love to share here is a vlog I’ve recently discovered on YouTube. I love YouTube…so way better than television. Apparently so does everyone else. In fact, in her first year on YT, Angie has rapidly grown to be one of the most popular channels. There are reasons obvious to me, but I will let you see for yourself.

Confession: I found this vlog because I am researching lifestyle channels, thinking about starting one myself. Sort of a live-action adjunct to this blog. There are aspects of Angie’s vlog I would copy – like wearing sunglasses indoors, of course. And her vulnerability, which I would much rather disguise – but what are the chances?! However, mine would also be quite different. For starters, I’m 12 years older. And far snarkier. Hard as I might try, I am not British. My vlog would have to include my metaphysical studies and spiritual experiences to be authentic. We all know I’ve never had a humble opinion in my life. But there are many things I admire about Angie, not the least of which is her consistency. I could learn something.

I have a long list of ideas…I would love your ideas. Let’s share our curiosity, in hopes that you and I can continue this conversation about life and loss and hope and inconsistency and beauty and all things human. Thank you for being here.

So here is my offering for today: Rare Birds, for those of us growing older, expanding rather than shrinking. For real people, highly sensitive people, who take life as it comes with all it’s foibles and inconsistencies. People like us, who keep on keeping on. Meanwhile, I’m off to my local hardware store to buy myself a garden fork…I hope Angie would be proud.

May17

waving truce against the moon

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“Let the beauty you love be what you do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” – Rumi

It’s time for some true confessions. The less I see of others sharing their vulnerabilities, the more I wanna. Because I’m also seeing some others who are sharing and it looks en-lighten-ing. I want that. I want to be lighter. I will always be a moth to the flame of freedom. All freedom – physical, financial, emotional, spiritual. I’m in my 70’s, and let’s just be frank here – I’m on the approach toward my death. I don’t feel like I’m going to die anytime soon, but the truth is we never know. Yes, I’ve lost much younger loved ones suddenly. But the recent shock of losing my former husband is a different kind of lesson.

He died unexpectedly last month at the age of 88. That sounds reasonably old. But there were things to be considered: firstly, he was the youngest of 5 children. His mother died of complications from an auto accident. But his father and four siblings all lived well into their 90’s. He lost his brother last October at the age of 97. They still golfed and played bridge twice a week with friends. They were active. He fully expected to live into his 90’s. And his death was “unexpected” because he died as the result of a fall, not of old age or natural causes. I had spoken to him a few days prior about getting together for lunch soon. I fully expected that to happen.

But this is really about the fear it triggered. We had been together for over 30 years when we were younger. He was not ever willing to discuss any arrangements for his death, natural or otherwise. He simply refused to consider it. When we were first married, I used to goad him that he thought he was the first immortal human. We had teenage children. His income was 10 times mine. There was no life insurance or any kind of financial arrangement in the event of his death. He was the most stubborn person I have ever known, and believe me, that is saying something in an Irish family.

So when he died in April he left nothing. His retirement pension stopped, which means so did my alimony. The State of Michigan is richer now; they won’t be paying him any longer. His new car has been repossessed by the bank. His 4 daughters inherited a savings account just large enough to cater his memorial service luncheon. Gratefully, I will receive his social security survivor benefits (but no longer receive mine. Social security pays whichever is greater, not both.) My life has just gotten exponentially harder. I’m 72 now and scrambling to figure out how I’ll support myself. It didn’t need to be this way, and of course, it’s absolutely perfect. It must be. I just don’t get to know why.

Yes, I had tried again and again to reason with him, even recently; to put some kind of a plan in place. He refused. In fact he laughed at me. He wasn’t going to die anytime soon. I thought he was unreasonable. He thought I was ridiculous. I guess we deserved each other. I miss him anyway.

If you’ve been here long, you know I’ve been grieving the loss of my beloved cat since October 20th. Just a couple days later my brother-in-law died, and a friend’s sweet dog whom I also loved. Three deaths all at once. And you also know that Chewy, my cat, was coming to me in my dreams and meditations. Twice he said very clearly, “do not make any decisions before spring.” When I heard this the second time, I asked what he meant by spring and he replied, “March 30th.” So…March 30th came, and while I did not feel any better, I was watching and listening for a change. Dick died 2 days later.

Since about the age of 65 I have worked at overcoming one of my biggest fears. It had incapacitated my creativity all of my life. My big, fat, ugly fear that people (especially loved ones) would think I am crazy. Insane type crazy. If you’ve read past blog posts, you know that I have truly healed these fears. All of my life my family and my two husbands had told me I was crazy. So I hid. It was blatant manipulation, what we now call gaslighting. It worked brilliantly. Kept me right where they wanted me – at their service.

Only today am I remembering that decades ago I went for a psych evaluation with a leading psychiatrist at U of M. I had asked my primary care physician to refer me because the antidepressants weren’t working. I thought maybe I needed something stronger. During that hour the psychiatrist said to me, “Well, you are not crazy, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He recommended that I not take stronger medication, but work toward improving my “circumstances.” In other words, pull your head out of your ass, Susan, and stop letting yourself be manipulated. Maybe stop living with addicts. My “over-developed sense of responsibility,” also professionally diagnosed, would get the better of me for a few more decades. Speaking of being stubborn…

So today I find myself back in survival mode, plagued by fears. And I wish to be free of them. I will begin with what I know – I will speak them. Name them. Expose them to the light. When Siddhartha Gautama (the Buddha) met evil on the road to enlightenment, he named it Architect. The Architect who would design his demise. The Architect of self doubt. He turned to face anything or anyone he felt this threat from. He would address them, and he would say, “I see you, Architect.”

Architect, I am scared of dying – not of death itself, but of suffering. Of lingering, being a burden to my only child. Let me be clear, I’m not afraid of pain. I know how to remain whole inside myself when my body is paralyzed with pain. When the morphine isn’t working and you can’t cry out for help. No one wants to learn that, but I have. I have walked trembling and yet confidently through hell and smelled the breath of huge, huge demons. Hoping their chains held; knowing that if not, at least my death would happen swiftly.

I’m afraid of losing the loved ones I have still, but that comes with aging. That’s just the way this works. I’m afraid of poverty. Of not having any control over where I live. Of becoming less and less free as I age. I’m afraid of this grief…of never finding joy again. That scares me most of all. I don’t know how to do grief. I guess I’m learning.

As I’ve said here before, my small group of friends have been patient with me. I went to lunch last week with one friend. It was a make up date because I had messed up our previous plans; I put them in my calendar wrong. Patience…while I am obviously being reset by life. Or as I say, “I’ll be with you in a moment” – my own euphemism for “I am not functioning.” Anyway, after a lovely meal we sat in her living room while I cried, consumed in self pity as I am these days. She reassured me as sweetly as I hope I would do for her. “There’s comfort in melancholy when there’s no need to explain…”

Suddenly she noticed a blue bunting on the bird feeder outside the window. Next thing we knew a spectacular oriole flew in. Brilliant orange, like it was lit up. Then a red cardinal. A bright yellow finch. It was surreal. Surreal is my default notification that God is hangin’ close. The veil is thin, and I am being blessed. I might have dismissed the significance of that if I were afraid you’d think me crazy. If that is crazy, sign me up for more.

“So now I am returning to myself these things that you and I suppressed.”

May9

Leslie Higgins is my spirit animal

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I know, I know – you probably think I’m cool like Trent Crimm. Refined and sophisticated like Rebecca Felton. Humble and magnanimous like Ted Lasso. But no. No, I’m actually awkward and nerdy and a lot more like Higgins than any other character in this series.

For instance, I am apparently the last remaining human with a television to watch the show. Not that it hasn’t been recommended by everyone I know. But recently, in a group of highly respected women creatives, I realized that I couldn’t hold my own in the conversations any longer if I don’t get the references. I’d have to catch up to keep up.

When my sister ran a dementia care home years ago I volunteered part time. I learned about the common occurrence of a symptom called sundowners. Certain activities were planned around and after dinner because the patients became anxious as the sun was setting. I immediately thought, “I have that.” Not just because I am somewhat of a hypochondriac, but because I recognized that I have been that way all my life. Or as far back as I can remember anyway. I become anxious and sad at sunset. My nervous system relaxes once dark has fallen, but for an hour or more every evening I am not myself. I’m guessing that the medical community became aware of this phenomenon in Alzheimer’s patients, and that no one has noticed yet that it happens to many of us without the dreadful disease. I’m guessing it is common in people with ADHD, or like me, AuDHD. But medicine lags behind our cultural experience…so, so far behind. And once again, I am never consulted.

So. I do what any self respecting intelligent person would do – I plan for my shortcomings. I find things to distract me, especially intellectually, after dinner. My preference is entertainment. I’m usually ready to sit down to dinner and then not get up again for a few hours. By 6 or so in the evening I am spent – physically as well as mentally and emotionally.

But oooohhh-eeee….there is a sad, S A D shortage of suitable entertainment available. My standards…once again…too high. Or so I’m told. Well meaning friends have made all manner of piss poor recommendations, from Game of Thrones to Outlander to Gilmore Girls. Jesusmaryjoseph. (Yes, that is all one word.) What, in the ever-loving….?!

No. No, people. Here are the criteria: INTELLIGENT. Which means exceptionally written. With intelligent, believable characters. Who actually behave like the intelligent, MATURE humans we are being asked to accept. Lorelai Gilmore’s neurosis might have been cute when she was 22, but now she just needs therapy. She’s tedious and annoying and if she were your cousin you’d have slapped her already.

Also, good writing must be well acted. Have extraordinary cinematography and preferably spectacular scenery. Fabulous clothing doesn’t hurt my feelings. It needs an awesome sound track. And most importantly – the context must be redemptive. What does that mean? It’s simple: no human evil. Occasional mental illness expected, psychopathy not so much. I love murder mysteries. Cannot stomach crime dramas. Not the same thing at all. Jesus, I don’t believe we are having this conversation again…but, okay, here goes.

Murder mysteries solve murders done by distraught, misguided people experiencing temporary insanity. Crimes of passion where somebody losses their shit and probably didn’t really mean to do it. Bad decisions are made and unfortunate mistakes follow. And, well, honestly – the victim usually had it coming, didn’t he? There is compassion to spare in these intricate stories of deeply flawed people. Nothing is pre-meditated. No serial killers. No middle-of-the-night creepy stalkers in dark alleys. Don’t frigin’ scare me. Instead, explain how this happened and resolve that merciful justice shall be carried out so I can have a good night’s sleep tonight. And merciful justice is why I do not watch period dramas. There was nothing merciful or just about the past. It’s exactly why we don’t like fascists now. Anybody with half a brain has seen the long term effects of that psycho shitstorm played out. Move along smartly.

I have a confession here. I resisted watching Ted Lasso for, well, years. The story revolves around a football team. I do not simply dislike team sports, I abhor them. They require a certain cult mentality that I avoid like the plague that it is. Large cultural groups are conditioned (I hear groomed) over decades of sanctioned violent dysfunction. Codependence abounds unchecked. Copious amounts of alcohol seem to be involved. Something about this entire subculture is just not right. Is it just me?!

But last week someone said to me, “watch Ted Lasso. It will restore your faith in humanity.”And I was desperate for some entertaining distraction from the crushing grief I have not yet come through. I was desperate for my faith in humanity to be restored. And…this series delivered. Five stars. Do recommend. I wish there were 100 seasons to binge watch; that would get me through to gardening season. To Richmond!