Category Archives: grief

Jun16

it’s all a stretch these days…

Posted on by
Standard

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

Posted on by
Standard

“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

Posted on by
Standard

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!

Apr21

with every mistake…

Posted on by
Standard

“If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.” -unknown

My dear friend (who we affectionately refer to as Ramda) came to visit. My son nicknamed her that because we revere her wisdom. We live about an hours’ drive apart, on a good weather day. Since we are located in the NW region of Michigans’ lower peninsula, good weather days are random. In the winter months – November through April – the roads are going to be treacherous many days and impassible some. But it is spring now, so better. Unfortunately, this entire northern half of the lower peninsula has been experiencing record flooding. My friend got tired of me putting off a visit. I’m grieving and having panic attacks lately. Long distance driving is a daunting obstacle.

So she decided to come here. And then all hell broke loose in the form of thunderstorms and high winds. Many roads were washed away. The people who live in Traverse City have been told that the repairs will likely take six months or more. The damage is widespread, and given the weather this time of year, could potentially get worse. Ramda had to set a long, circuitous route and go north into the Leelanau peninsula and then come south to me. But she insisted, and I am grateful for her wisdom and her company.

As it happened, the sun was shining that day. We bundled ourselves against the forty degree temperatures and ventured to the nearby lighthouse for a beach walk. I pocketed only a few stones. As with most everything in my current life, I have refined my collecting habits. Now I only collect rocks shaped like hearts, or pink granite with a green line running through it. They grace my windowsills and sinks. These are the same beach stones that caught my eye as a child along these beaches. I’d tell you I’m in my second childhood, but anyone who has known me long will tell you – I never left my first. And it’s never too late to have a happy childhood.

She and I sat on the bench and had our usual deep, loving conversation…and some good ol’ belly laughs. Somehow we got on the subject of language itself, one of my favorite topics. We started talking about recent buzzwords that have entered the cultural vernacular. Words like envisage. And conversate. Soon we were cracking ourselves up using those in sentences…you kinda had to be there. But really, why? I see; I visualize. Feel free to envisage yourself right along…I talk. I don’t conversate. Whatever.

Anyway (which does not, nor has ever had, an S on the end, people) we had a lovely visit. These early spring days are glorious here. Exactly what I need for healing. I am more and more acutely aware of the collateral beauty. You know what that is, right? It’s the inherent beauty in all life, in being alive on the planet earth exactly where you are now. For reasons beyond me, it is far more noticeable when you are in a state of grief. I want to learn to be aware of it always. I want to learn to live with heightened senses, from inside a state of grace and compassion. To miss my lost beloveds and to see and hear them in the earth as it comes alive again.

My son and I have decided that we love living here near the water. Our little village has everything we need. When I was looking for a place to move I wanted to be off the beaten track (not in the drop-by zone) but with the most important amenities: a library, a post office, and a grocery store. I also got a wonderful local bookstore and several restaurants, and a six-bed hospital with world class medical care. But we do live on, as we call it, “the edge of the world.”

This is a destination, not a pass-through place. It is our own thin place. And it is just right for us.

Mar31

Monday moanin’

Posted on by
Standard

Unlike most, I love Mondays. I always have. Mondays are the beginning of a new week, and I like beginnings. I’ve always been a morning person. Mornings are the beginning of a new day, and I like beginnings. So Monday mornings? The best. This seems to have been true since I was a young girl, old enough to notice that I liked some things better than others, so I’m calling it “my nature.” I am a morning person by nature. I have always preferred sunrises to sunsets, eastern light best of all in a house. It feels like renewal, somehow regenerative.

Only in retrospect am I realizing that I also liked Monday mornings throughout my life because I preferred school to home with family, and work to home with husband. Monday morning provided someplace to go, away from the chaos. It’s sad to see that in retrospect, to not have been aware enough to have seen it at the time I was living it. Big-ass learning curve I’m on this incarnation…phew!

As it happens, this morning I feel at peace. I have not felt at peace in a very long time. My dear long-suffering friends have put up with some very bad behavior coming from me. I’m tiresome. Unreliable. All I have done is cry, swear, and moan. I have even discovered that when you get a solicitation text on your phone – the kind you respond STOP to unsubscribe from – you will also be unsubscribed if you respond FUCK OFF. It works the same but is so much more satisfying. I’m just ornery.

My depression – no, despondency – has been limitless. Since October, so, all fucking winter. This winter has been particularly severe. Dark, extremely cold, historic amounts of snow, power outages. I don’t remember a winter this ugly in decades. It matched my state of mind perfectly. Cart meet horse…never mind…the sun is out this morning. The temperature will soar over 40 degrees today…woohoo. The snow is melting. I can get out of the house. There is hope.

The truth is, of course, this state has been grief. It seems to be bottomless. I’m sure everyone is tired of hearing about it. Losing my beloved familiar broke something open in me. Something that had been festering for a long, long time. Perhaps more than one lifetime. That’s how it feels. I am inconsolably angry – for both of us, you might be glad to know. If I can survive this I’d like to think it will benefit more than just me. But who knows…the longer I live, the less I seem to understand about how things work. I’m new here.

So, now what? From moments of screaming in the shower to resigned meditation, I have repeatedly heard, “wait until spring,” “don’t make any decisions until spring,” “rest until spring.” I yelled and sniped and cajoled back, “be more specific,” “give me a date.” I am so entirely done trying to interpret spirit’s wisdom, or my intuition. Give it to me straight or shut up. And I did – I did – hear back: end of March. March 30th to be precise. And here we are.

Now it is time to discover the entirety of my nature. To learn the language of my soul. To find out how life works if I don’t make compromises. To face east and let the sunrise light me up, now that I am free to be myself.

Feb13

what if the silence said it

Posted on by
Standard

In the dream I convinced her she needed her hair trimmed. I’d have done anything to get her to stay just a little while longer. I miss my Mom so much. I could always count on her, talk to her about anything. She’s been gone 23 years next month. It’s never gotten easier. I am still grieving, always will be I guess. This is who I am now apparently. Grief is my jam.

Lately, well meaning friends ask when I will get another cat or dog. I give them a respectable answer – it doesn’t really matter what it is. They need to hear that I’m okay in a way they can understand. I could certainly love another animal. So many are waiting to be adopted, to rescue someone like me…but they won’t be my spirit companion, my Chew. He isn’t replaceable any more than someone else could be my mother. I can’t expect anyone else to understand that. I don’t understand it. But I don’t need to.

My life is full of worries. Silly contrived concerns of all manner following me throughout my days. And nights. Mom knew. Chewy knew. They loved me in spite of myself. Didn’t give a whit what the world brought to the door on any given day, they were just happy to be together. She was my person. I was his person. Everybody needs a person.

My heart is tender. I don’t want to fix it. I’m not much for conversation these days. I got nuthin’. The world has too much talk.

Maybe it’s just February. Maybe it’s my aging body. Maybe it’s the young deer in the woods behind my house, laying in the hay I spread on the back hill. They stare at me through the big picture window as if they get it. Maybe it’s thousands of tender hearts lining the streets as the monks walk for peace. They get it. In the silence the peace is expanding.

Jan14

I eat fear for breakfast.

Posted on by
Standard

It’s the middle of January. Did you make New Year’s resolutions? I didn’t. I never do. I can’t goad myself into change. If I decide to make changes, it doesn’t matter what day it is. Which is why I’m finding it amusing that I’ve just discovered I have fallen back into a very bad habit. And it needs to change. Today.

It’s a life-long habit, so plenty of practice under my belt. Seventy odd years or so, so I can be gentle with myself, but I’m on it. This bad habit is fear. And unchecked it will kill me. I’m a fear addict, and I’ve fallen off the wagon. I’ve talked for the last three months about this crippling grief and how I don’t seem to be coming out of it. This is where that spiritual advice I heard many years ago would come in handy: “Let yourself fall apart at the SEEMS.” What if this despair isn’t pure grief, but the fear demon has attached itself to me again? C.S. Lewis, grieving the loss of his wife, said “who knew grief felt so much like fear?”

Grief is a big gaping wound in your soul. And fear is an infection that sets in. But the treatment is simple, inexpensive, and readily available. I guarantee you already have the ingredients for the cure in your household.

When my son was going through cancer treatment in his early 20’s, I was a basket case. He had to be brave for both of us. One day in the hospital elevator he said to me, “I know I’m going to be alright, but what are we going to do about getting you some help?” I asked him, “aren’t you afraid?” To which he replied, “I eat fear for breakfast.”

I love the old acronym for FEAR: False Evidence Appearing Real. False evidence, indeed. It might have it’s basis in reality. But our conditioned mind takes hold of that dust bunny and knits us into a cocoon of despair in no time. Confusion sets in, and before we know it we are incapacitated. I certainly have been. Oh, the grief is real. The powerlessness is not.

And the solution? You know this. I know this. The simple home remedy? Creativity. In any form. Not art necessarily, although that would do for starters. But creativity. A creative act. One. Simple. Creative. Act. Watch a favorite old movie, bake muffins, rearrange the furniture, cook a meal, notice something you didn’t see before, write a blog post (journal), sew a different button on your shirt that doesn’t match the others…

THIS is why creativity is radical. It defies a pattern. It’s what psychology calls a pattern interrupt. And it is why creativity is said to be courageous. It doesn’t require anything terribly brave or outrageously defiant. It just is courageous and defiant. It’s a choice. It’s choosing life.

Fear is a bad habit. It’s using your imagination against yourself. It’s not healthy. And the only way I know to change or overcome a bad habit is to replace it with a healthier one. That’s why creativity heals us. It’s the practice of exercising our imagination in service to ourselves – to our life.

Creativity is an act of generosity to ourself. It’s a declaration of our intent to treat ourself fairly, magnanimously, as if we are valuable. “There is a truth and it’s on our side. Dawn is coming, let’s open our eyes.” I’m eating fear for breakfast. You comin’?

Jan13

the primordial soup

Posted on by
Standard

How many Jewish mothers does it take to change a light bulb? It doesn’t take any. And don’t worry about me – I’ll be fine alone here in the dark.

Alone here in the dark is exactly how I feel, still trying to navigate this crushing grief. Thank you my darling loved ones who keep reaching out to let me know that I am not alone. I appreciate that – but I am alone, and it’s okay. You can’t be here, inside my grief with me. You can be next to my body. You can be here in my town, my home, my space, on my phone…but not here. So forgive me for being away so long, I have to do this alone. And I don’t know how. It must be possible, though. Generations have done it before us for millennia. All of nature does it; don’t tell me that is different. I won’t believe you.

My cat died. I loved him with all my heart. He was my constant and revered companion. I didn’t lose my child, but I did. I didn’t lose my Mother, but I did. I lost my Father and my brother and my Grandmothers and my Grandfathers and my Aunt and my Uncle and my Great Aunt. I lost my friend. I lost every one I’ve ever lost in the 71 years I’ve been alive. I’ve lost them all over again in the past three months. I don’t know why this is true now, but for some reason it is.

I have a grief counselor who explains this to me. Why I have delayed the full experience of grief in younger years because I had to function as a mother and a daughter and a wife and a coworker and how I have previously had other pets and people who depended on me…whatever. I’m not big on explanations right now. Don’t much care to understand this.

This is precisely why this is so overwhelming. And it is also precisely why this feels like such a profound privilege. I dare not take this time lightly or hurry myself out of this pain. Something about this feels very important. Like I will not ever have this perfect set of circumstances again. I will not ever have this opportunity for this healing again.

My heart is broken, and I do not want it repaired. If I cannot have my beloved back, I don’t want anything back. I don’t want life to look the same or feel the same or live the same ever again. It will have to be new to mean anything at all.

I find myself helplessly madly in love with every little thing. Dear sweet little bugs that take refuge in my house from the bitter cold. The deer stand around looking in the windows at me. No doubt wondering if there are any more carrots. They delight me. The wind…oh, how I love the wind right now. You. I have never fully appreciated you. How glorious you are. How beautiful.

I will never be the same again. I’m not a caterpillar anymore, not yet a winged creature. I’m in the chrysalis, melting into soup that I might be re-formed. Life is waiting for me, patiently. Let it wait.

“to live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go” – Mary Oliver

Dec22

the path of least resistance

Posted on by
Standard

In my last writing, 17 days ago now, I said to myself “take the path of least resistance, Susan.” Suffice it to say that I am terrible at taking my own advice. In fact, I often feel as if I have done nothing but repeat myself here on this blog for over 13 years…I seem to be a very hard learner. This is not new. Dammit. It seems I have been this way all my life.

In the spirit of becoming, as I am trying to convince myself that I can actually live as a verb, ever embracing new habits in the effort to change, improve, evolve….I will once again return my daily routine to the basic practices of self care. I will get out of the shower and put a cotton ball soaked with castor oil in my belly button. I will slather my dry skin with Frankincense. I will write my morning pages, even if it takes me until 3 in the afternoon. Walk. It is cold and icy outdoors. True confessions: I bought myself a walking pad so I can walk indoors. I bought it on sale after Christmas last year. It has never been plugged in. The power cord is around here somewhere…have I ever mentioned that I talk a good game?

There will be no “New Year New You” resolutions declared here for my part. That would be hilarious! If I just stuck to what I know I’d be ahead of the game. When I would challenge my father in my teenage years to walk his talk, he would reply, “do as I say, not as I do…” I wish I didn’t understand that quite so well now as a Mother. I don’t want my child to follow in my footsteps; I hope he surpassed me years ago in every way. Run. Fly.

So. Back to basics. Self care – mentally and physically – is the order of the day. While I’m being honest let me also admit that I am still seriously depressed. I’ve been off antidepressants since my pancreatitis this past summer. I’m trying to stay off of all medications and cleanse my liver and pancreas. Losing Chewy in October has sent me into a tailspin. Grief and the inordinately dark days are kicking my butt. But the real honest-to-goodness truth is that I’m angry. I’m livid. And to explain this would take too long. Where would I start? JesusMaryJoseph, where would I start? I can legit justify my anger into the next millennium, and where does that get me? You got it – sick. It is making me sick.

In my old age I am acknowledging that I have always had an inner knowing that serves me well; that knows the way for me. You have this, too. And that inner knowing has never listened when told, “you need to grow a thicker skin.” No. I have become much too hardened already. I don’t like the world I live in. But I love the earth and the water and the trees, the sentient life; I only want to soften into it as I grow older.

Since I have been grieving I have had a strange companion out in my yard. A lone deer. It’s always by itself and it hangs around close to the house. It sleeps under the Hawthorne right outside my bedroom window. It is different than all the other deer that wander through the yard in large herds. It’s face is darker and it is of stockier build. So maybe the herd rejected it? Maybe it’s somehow disabled? I have no idea. I do put out carrots and veggies, especially now that I can assume the bear is hibernating. Most of the birds have gone with the harsh weather, but the crows remain close. The pair of bald eagles are back.

I’ve lost interest in almost anything I used to be interested in. I’m easily made anxious by any media. I avoid friends and any kind of activity. The poor grocery store clerk says the wrong thing and I’m in tears. I’m a pain in the ass. I don’t care. I’m done trying to be anything but honest, but I know most people will be uncomfortable in my presence. Let me spare them the ugly dissolution of my former self. Let me not pretend to codify their expectations. Something in me has died and I will not attempt to revive it. It’s free to go. I’m okay with not knowing who I am anymore. When I allow myself to sit with anger, it dissipates into grief. It loosens me and I can breathe again.

Awake in the middle of the night, I meditate. Last night I fell back to sleep and had one of those wild dreams where I am obviously visiting another time and place. I asked where I was, and was given a specific name. That isn’t unusual. Neither is getting up at 9am to Google it and finding out it exists, although as an ancient ruin. It was a vibrant community last night in my dream. I can only imagine that I was there for healing purposes. That is the prayer I fell asleep with.

These days I can read good writing. I can listen to good poetry. And I can look to Tiokasin Ghosthorse for inspiration, because he lives his life as a verb. As he wisely tells me, “do not try to heal the earth. Let the earth heal you.” Don’t try to understand your dreams; let your dreams understand you.

Nov30

the true fact of everything

Posted on by
Standard

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?!