Category Archives: inspiration

Apr21

with every mistake…

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“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.

Apr16

“Seal the blast doors!”

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When my son was little I used to say, “you can fool some of the people all of the time, or all of the people some of the time…but you can’t fool me.” It was straight-up manipulative programming. I’m not proud. Not only was I living in survival mode myself, but I had noooooo clue how to parent a child, let alone a sensitive genius. I set out to convince him that he had best not try to pull the wool over my eyes. I would not be fooled. Maybe not the best way to build trust.

In truth I had pulled just about every trick in the book with my own parents. I’m not sure they were actually fooled, but they allowed me to get away with anything and everything. They subconsciously taught me to think that I was really smart…hahhahaa. I was certainly creative getting myself into all manner of sticky situations. God, my guardian angels, always had my back. Like the night of my 18th birthday when I drove to the tattoo parlor to get a tattoo – and the building was literally on fire! As it happened, I got my first tattoo for my 40th birthday, and I’m glad I waited for a number of reasons. Never mind in the year 1972 that industry wasn’t regulated, so…eewww.

Fast forward decades and I am no more savvy than I was at 18…or, am I? No smarter, perhaps, except to know what I don’t know. But oh…way, way more trusting. Exponentially more faith. Faith in my intuition, imagination, God. Those are all the same things, just by the by…and somewhere after midnight, in my wildest fantasies…

The original Star Wars came out in 1977, the year before my son was born. There were no streaming services then. I insisted my husband take me to the theater, and I remember that it was only showing at one theater in the northern Detroit suburbs, in Southfield. The next day I made him take me back with my teenage sister in tow this time. My heart knew something truthful was happening and I was going to glean every drop of inspiration I could while it was available. It was life-changing, like watching The Beatles on Ed Sullivan as a kid. A bold new world of possibilities was opening up.

When my son was old enough – 7 or 8, maybe – we watched Star Wars together. And I told him something I believed to be true then, and still now: “you must become a Jedi to survive in the world of your future.” He is, indeed, a Jedi for his time. I encouraged his intuition despite not understanding how it worked.

Recently I lost one of my heroes, my former husband. I say that with a whole clusterfuck of mixed emotions. He needed to be my hero to feel worthy as a man – and thus, he needed me to remain in the role of damsel-in-distress. It took years for me to become cognizant of that unhealthy dynamic; more years to extricate myself once I had tried and failed to change it. But I never did overcome the need for him in my corner when I was truly in trouble. And he never abandoned me. He might not have had any emotional intelligence (he was an addict, after all), but he was always at the end of the phone in an actual emergency. That was his love language. For example, when my son was diagnosed with lymphoma, he showed up at the door unannounced, dropping off bags of groceries. He did his best with what he knew, also a product of his own dysfunctional upbringing. I’m learning to forgive him. And me.

And so here I am, grieving again and still. I’ve had another hero step in since his death, a dear friend. She’s the rare kind of friend who doesn’t wait to be asked if you need help. She knew what I needed and she just showed up. And it wasn’t the first time she’s done that. Somehow she has always believed in me. There are no words to describe my gratitude.

We all need heroes from time to time. All of a sudden they are everywhere I look. Fear shall not prevail. One of them is my aforementioned friend. Four of them just circled the moon in Artemis II. My son is my hero, just not in a way I expected. He never fails to inspire me, nor to make me laugh and feel safe and loved. He tells me emphatically that I am magic when I least believe it.

One of the women friends I admire most just bought us tickets to see the story of Mary Oliver at the City Opera House next month, a wonderful evening to look forward to. Mary Oliver is one of my heroes, as is Anne LaMott, who wrote:

“I was reminded of the Four Immutable Laws of Spirit: Whoever is present are the right people. Whenever it begins is the right time. Whatever happened is the only thing that could have happened. When it’s over, it’s over.”

Help shows up in many ways. Having faith is recognizing that you are, and always have been, blessed and highly favored. God, the angels, show up in many forms. Sometimes they are the loved ones who have always got your back. Sometimes they frustrate the ever-loving bejesus out of you. This dawn it was simply birds singing me awake. So I mean this, and I say it to you with all my heart: May the force be with you.

Apr2

back for season six

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Since the internist saved my life in the ER five years ago, I have been a patient. The man is brilliant. So, it stands to reason that he has the smartest nurse practitioner in the region. I love this woman. They are the best medical team I’ve ever had, and I have been blessed with some brilliant doctors. All who think outside the box, drawing upon a wide knowledge of medicine and natural treatments. Like the Sufi M.D. I had in Detroit when my son was a toddler. I complained about how hard it was to get him settled at night. He suggested I massage Steven’s little feet with sandalwood oil to help ground him. It was life-changing.

I’ve told the story here of how I was limping around with sciatica when I bumped into the chiropractor who had an office near my workplace. He offered to help me the next morning before we both began our work day. I’d never been to a chiropractor and was hesitant, but I was in pain. He sat me on the table that morning and asked me about the nightmare I had just woken from. “How did you know I had a nightmare?!” He just looked at me. In the nightmare the zoo was on fire, and I was being chased by a polar bear that had escaped. The doctor guided me through a meditation where I allowed the bear to catch up, turned to face it, and it wrapped me in it’s arms and nuzzled me. We cried together. No adjustment, but I never had sciatica again.

As it happened, sitting in the chiropractor’s waiting room that morning, I picked up a magazine off the table. The Sun. I’d never heard of it. It’s a literary magazine, and the cover story was an interview with the author of a new book. The author was Helen Palmer. The book was The Enneagram. I liked and subscribed, decades before social media existed. I bought the book, the magazine, the philosophy and the new perspective.

You’ve heard my stories before. I have thousands of these stories, in case you didn’t think I was living a charmed life. This doesn’t mean I haven’t lived in doubt. Of myself, my intuition, my nature. I’ve even come to appreciate my self doubt. No doubt, no growth. I’m a walking testament to the value of curiosity as a life path.

White haired now at 72, I say that I have discovered that I am a witch. I didn’t set out to be one; still don’t know much about them. They did fly in my window and heal me years ago when I was deathly ill passing gallstones. That was the first I had ever thought of them as anything other than fictional creatures. Was I hallucinating in my fever? You bet. Did that make them less real? Nope. Recognized one downtown several days later, eating lunch in a local restaurant. Real as you and I.

That day was my first outing since being so ill. I was picking up a book I had ordered. I had bought a deck of tarot cards the previous week while visiting Marion down in Grand Rapids, and I wanted the companion book. When I walked into my local Traverse City bookstore late, it happened a strange book sat on the counter. It was waiting for someone who had ordered it but changed their mind. The Flying Witches of Veracruz. I bought it. The Mexican witches had healed the tourist…you guessed it – he was passing gallstones.

That was my life. It hasn’t been obviously magical like that for decades now. Since I married a narcissist and forgot myself. I often joke that I am Rita Van Winkle, Rip’s great-granddaughter – and in my family we fall asleep for 20 years. That’s about how long it took for me to begin to extricate myself from that spell. And the witches showed up for me. They always will.

Mar31

Monday moanin’

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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.

Mar19

the house hold

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It has always and only ever been about the house for me. This house. All the previous houses. The house I grew up in. I have spent the majority of my lifetime writing about home. My bookshelves are full of books about home. My favorite novels include The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, and favorite memoirs include House Lessons by Erica Bauermeister. They talked to their house. I talk to my house.

Most of the most memorable movie scenes for me center around the house. P.L Travers returns to her London townhouse after exhaustive negotiations with Walt Disney, comes in and says, “Hello, House…” She sold Mary Poppins for one reason and one reason only: she didn’t want to lose her house.

At this moment I am completely snowed in. To leave my house I would have to push through heavy waist deep snow drifts and climb over a mountain of snow and ice, well over my head, down to the road. Then I would have to have someone else pick me up. My car is buried at the top of that hill. I’m not going anywhere. Thank goodness the power is back on and the freezer is full.

Once the storm abated – meaning the gale-force winds died down to 45 mph and the constant snow became lake effect rather than system, my neighbors began contacting me. They don’t live here; these are vacation homes now. Ice and heavy wet snow had obscured their views from outdoor security cameras. They didn’t know what things looked like here. How many trees were down? I sent what photos I could take from inside my house. My doors won’t open.

Not only have I never owned a second home, I have never wanted to. In fact I can’t imagine it. I read recently that the wealthiest Americans own a home in each of the 50 states. They own the company that manages those homes. They own the planes that might fly them to those homes. I’m sure there is a reason for this, likely a tax reason.

Decades ago my brother-in-law Bob started the first taxi cab company in Traverse City. My former husband, son, and I drove taxi from time to time as needed. We picked up people from private jets and delivered their children to private schools and to hidden estates in outlying properties all over this area, stopping several times to let their assistants buy supplies. I know all the disguises famous people use to be incognito. Even as a kid, in private school in the Detroit suburbs, I had friends with family “up north” at the private art school Interlochen. I knew their famous parents. Fame never appealed to me, in fact it seems like a terrible life sentence. I can only have compassion for them despite their wealth. As far as I’m concerned, it wouldn’t begin to serve as adequate compensation for needing a disguise in public. Let alone constant protection.

Only now I am realizing that there is some deeper awareness here for me to glean. To worry how your “other house” has fared a storm…it boggles my mind. I wish you could see what I see at this very moment. I’m sitting at the desk in my bedroom writing this. I face a window which has a hawthorn tree outside it, planted decades ago a little too close to the house. Right now the tree is full of robins. Full. Two dozen? I’m talking to them. They are all sitting on this side of the tree, amongst the berry-laden branches, facing me. I am their student. One just flew to the window, fluttering it’s wings an inch from the glass. It was saying, “We see you. Do you see us?” How beautiful. My heart opens.

On the edge of the desk next to the window are three small houseplants. An asparagus fern, which seems to especially enjoy the spot above the radiator, a spotted dieffenbachia and an African violet. They delight me. No houseplants in an extra house, unless you employ a caretaker. No soul. No infusion of day-to-day, of frustration and grief and resolution. No beloveds bones buried in the yard. You might experience spring in a second house, but not every day of it. No two days are the same here.

My soul is so attached. I’m attached to my house and to every little thing inside and out. I’m attached to my place, to the land, to the sky here, to the smells and the sounds, to the light and the shadows, to being who I am here, now. So very attached. Some may say this is unhealthy. Talk amongst yourselves. I don’t care.

Could I leave? Of course; I imagine I will, perhaps even soon. I’ve moved more times than average, all my life. But I take my life with me to each new house and I make a new life, a new place. I’m embedded. Somehow, it’s always about the house. It’s another relationship to me, to be nurtured and treasured.

I’m not sure what that means…but I am fascinated with this, and always willing to explore it. To explore my attachments. I imagine many – perhaps most – people have other priorities – career, passions, climate preferences – that dictate where they live. My priority is the house. Proximity to the people and things I love, sure – but I will forgive a lot of preferences for the right house. It makes all the difference.

It seems as though no one I’ve lived with gets this. My Mother did, and I’m sure that is where my attachment comes from. And her Mother. They made beautiful homes. But no one since has had any conscious awareness of the true value of a home. Home: as shelter, as sanctuary, as healer, as family member. Alive. Functioning. Home.

Oh, I don’t doubt that they get it subconsciously. But you can’t convince anyone of the importance of something subconscious. It becomes a power struggle. I have lived most of my adult life in a power struggle, attempting to prove my worth as well as why I cared about our home. I’ve stayed far too long where I was disrespected precisely because I didn’t want to leave my beautiful home. I’m done with that now. I’m done trying to convince anyone of anything. As the meme says, “Explaining myself is too much work. Just judge me.”

Mar15

always eat from the garden

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Sweetness and light I am not. I’m a surly old broad. I fail to understand why I am not treated like royalty everywhere I go…do they not know who I am…???

I’m much like Francis in this wonderful short film. A grouchy old fuss-budget-know-it-all. Able to be plied with sweets. But I want to be like Bella – self-assured, friendly and inquisitive.

A few days ago I met a dear friend for lunch, and then had the treat of accompanying her to a house showing. Who doesn’t love to nosey around a house for sale?! The old cottage itself was a bit of a fixer-upper, increasingly less common in this area. And often the victim of vampire flippers looking to make a quick profit. This cottage had been shared by three sisters who were either deceased now, or too elderly to travel here. A pencil portrait of one of them hung above the bookcase in the living room, as if they had always intended to return. This had never been a year-round home, but a getaway. It was a little gem waiting to be loved again.

The realtor made a comment about the potential here if someone had the vision. My first thought was that my friend has vision! She is a remarkable person, and one of my favorite artists. But I didn’t say that – instead I started espousing what I would do with the place. I have vision, too, you know. I guess I was having a sudden fit of jealousy, and I must have sounded like a right ass.

I loved the acre of woods hiding the house so protectively, the long two-track dirt drive we had to back up and search for…the fir floors, white bead board walls, the mullioned windows. A fairy tale cottage in the woods if ever I’d seen one.

Oh, I do so hope my friend comes to live in the cottage. She would be closer to me. I want her closer, in hopes she will be patient with me, like Bella is patient with Francis. Of course she will. She always is. And being with her is healing in so many ways. Patience is healing. Being seen is healing. Being vulnerable is healing. I want to be vulnerable with my hopelessly romantic little life.

Mar13

hopeless romantic

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It has been almost a month since I have written here. Remember when I used to write almost daily?! That hasn’t happened in a very long time.

It has been a very long winter. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever write here again, to be honest. In fact, I’m not sure about much of anything anymore. My life has been a “watch this space” kinda life…I’m taking it one day at a time. You might think that wise in my old age, but that isn’t really new for me. I’ve pretty much always lived by the seat of my pants.

Now I just live more in retrospect – and I am paying particular attention to the healing. That is one of the many beautiful things about growing old: self-awareness grows, too. Often in spite of ourselves, although I shall only speak for my stubborn self here.

And you notice different things that you never noticed when you were young. How could you have, scrambling to keep up with the impositions of the world? Trying to work and love and think and feel and survive the constant barrage of needs and expectations…trying to survive…

Now I look back and realize that I completely and utterly lost any semblance of romantic inclination decades ago. I had no desire for romance in my life. In fact, I found the notion of romantic love repulsive. Deliver me. Go away. “I vant to be left alone,” as Greta Garbo actually said. I only wanted to enjoy my own company. It didn’t happen right away. In fact it took decades (and several therapists) to extricate myself from the addiction of people pleasing. But, in retrospect, I see now that it was a healing that had occurred. A great big – HUGE huge huge!!! healing: I stopped needing to be accepted. I stopped killing myself trying to prove my worth. I stopped needing to be anything other than who I am so that you wouldn’t leave me. I stopped needing to be needed.

And everything changed. Everything. Halle-fucking-lujah…

Although, I cannot tell you how many friends have told me that living without romance in your life is sad. Sad?! I’ve never been happier. Sad? Because I’m alone? Sure, I experience waves of loneliness. They last about 3 minutes before the delight of something else grabs my attention and I am free to blissfully dive down that rabbit hole.

And this morning something wonderful occurred to me – that I might be living the most romantic life of anyone I know. I am a hopeless romantic.

I romance everything in my life. The trees! Oh, my…the trees. Aren’t they magnificent?! They are not just shade from the hot sun – no. They are my cathedral; my sanctuary. I do not merely walk through the woods; I am on a pilgrimage of spirit. I sit at the beach, watch the water pulling diamonds to the shore, listen to the inland sea rolling onto the sand, and I am transported to heaven. I hear God whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Yep, I’m a hopeless romantic, having a mad love affair with life. Watch this space.

Almost a decade ago I discovered a weird little television series, and I am currently watching it again…as romantics tend to do. It’s so much better this time through. Do you know why? Because I’m so much better this time through. Detectorists is a very quirky little slow moving story about two misfits who become friends over a common hobby – metal detecting. I could not BE LESS interested in metal detecting. But I am a nerd. And my nerd of a son likes to go metal detecting, especially on the nearby beaches after a storm…and it gave us something to watch together.

My hard-ass, hard-hearted unromantic stupid self thought I’d indulge him. But I fell in love. I fell in love with the characters and the writing and the scenery and the music and the spectacular talent and the oh-so-unpredictable surprise delight of it all! What a masterpiece.

Jump down this rabbit hole. Written, directed, and acted by Mackenzie Crook. You’ll never look at a nerd the same way again. Music by Johnny Flynn…and if you don’t know who he is, pull yer head out. Most recently I watched him in Goodbye June. And Rachael Stirling, so talented in her own right, even if she is the daughter of Dame Diana Rigg – who petitioned for a part in the series herself when she learned about it. If you don’t know who Diana Rigg is, well…we really can’t be friends. Go wake up your inner romantic and join us among the living.

Will you search through the lonely earth for me? Climb through the briar and bramble? I’ll be your treasure…I’m waiting for you.

Jan14

I eat fear for breakfast.

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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’?

Jan4

you can call me Phil

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“The opposite of faith is not doubt; it is certainty. It is madness. You can tell you have created God in your image when he or she hates all the same people you do.” – Anne LaMott

I cannot tell you how many times I said to my sisters, “you have created God in your own image,” but they didn’t get it. I had never heard of Anne LaMott at the time. It just seemed obvious to me. They would yell and scream at me – as if perhaps that would convince me – that God hates fags. And blacks? A lesser race. Forget indigenous people. They were savages. My sister told me once that if she had her way all Muslims would be wiped off the face of the planet. To this day I am shocked how such different people could come from the same two parents. I don’t get it. I’ll never get it. That’s how I knew they’d been brainwashed into a cult. We were not raised that way. Quite the opposite; we were raised to be kind to all creatures, and treat every person with the same respect.

In my 20’s I started a tradition of taking my Mother to a summer concert, just us two. It was a manipulative way to get her all to myself for an evening. I would pack us a picnic and we would often sit in our car enjoying it after the concert, waiting for the parking lot to clear out. I’d given up buying the less expensive lawn tickets after being caught in a downpour. But I didn’t want to abandon the picnic part of our date.

Mom was a country music fan and over the years we saw some great concerts I never would have experienced on my own. Neil Diamond…Anne Murray…and when Willy Nelson came to Pine Knob I purchased tickets. But I just couldn’t bring myself…so I asked my sister to take her. They brought me a pink handkerchief as a souvenir. I had it framed and gave it back to my Mother, where it hung in her hallway for many years.

In 1993 we had both moved north from the Detroit suburbs, so I chose from the summer concert series at Interlochen. And I chose to get us tickets to see K.D. Lang…because, well, who wouldn’t want to see that icon live?! My sisters got wind of my Mother’s plans and had a hissy fit. How dare I take my Mother to see a lesbian?! My reply was, “well…we weren’t going to sleep with her…we were just going to listen to her sing.” That infuriated them. As usual, I didn’t get it. Thick as I am. But Mom and I had a great time. I hope she didn’t carry any guilt about going.

My siblings and I have very different gods. Mine doesn’t care what you call her. Theirs is definitively a him. And he cares very much how he is named in prayer. Sometimes I envy them their certainty that they know God. My God is magnificently mysterious and unfathomable. Big as all creation and yet personal, loving and kind. So is my faith.

“Maybe a great magnet pulls all souls towards truth, or maybe it is life itself feeds wisdom to it’s youth…” – K.D. LANG

Dec22

the path of least resistance

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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.