Category Archives: inspiration

Nov8

matrix traffic

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Lest you might have surmised from reading this blog that I live a small, insignificant or boring life…well, you couldn’t be more wrong. Well, you might be bored living my slow life. My little mind finds infinite ways to entertain myself. Yesterday afternoon I made a quick run down to the local grocery store a mile from here, just to pick up a few ingredients for dinner and the weekend. I had the most surreal experience. I’ve had this kind of thing happen before, but not recently, so it really stood out.

It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Tourist season is over so the parking lot of the store was almost empty. I parked easily and slowly meandered in…and just at the exact moment I walked through the door, a woman came out of nowhere and met me – shoulder to shoulder – and we pressed up against one another to get through the narrow opening of the door. I, of course, automatically said, “excuse me,” thinking perhaps I had somehow stepped in front of her. I almost stepped on her.

But I hadn’t. She’d come from behind me. And then the weirdness started. I swore she walked around me when I stopped for a cart. But as I approached the produce department on my very specific quest for a lemon, there she was! Stopped, with a cart, studying the lemons. I waited patiently for her to move on.

We smiled at one another and continued on our merry way. But I could not lose her. My merry way was her merry way. I had about ten? maybe 12? items on my list to buy. Did she have the exact same list?!

TWICE I said, “pardon me, go ahead…” and waited for her to walk ahead. Otherwise our carts would have hit. Mind you, there didn’t seem to be anyone else shopping in the store at the time. I rounded the last aisle I would need to visit and made a beeline for the checkout. There was one – one – lane open. And as I put the first couple of items up on the conveyor belt, up she walked, crowded up behind me and began unloading her groceries up against mine. I had to insert my arm between our items and place the little stick down on the belt to differentiate them. Then as I walked away from the checkout I smiled at her and she said, and I quote: “have a nice day.”

I laughed out loud! Actually, I laughed all the way home. This is what my son calls “matrix traffic.”

He believes the traffic you suddenly encounter out of nowhere didn’t actually exist before you began moving. In this simulation where we are living our lives (that I have called life on the Holodeck), the matrix invents ways to slow you down or divert your path. I have always laughed and thought his viewpoint to be a bit of a conspiracy theory. But yesterday, I realized that this phenomena has occurred often throughout my life.

I was reminded of one such incident that happened decades ago. I was alone, driving home through Detroit late at night and my car stalled. I’d run out of gas – I had just realized that the gas gage wasn’t working on my car and I would have to get that checked first thing in the morning. I glided onto the shoulder of the freeway just at the entrance to a weigh station. The weigh station, built to check large semi-haulers are within legal limits, was not open. Or even lit up. I think I was in my early to mid twenties, long before the invention of cell phones. No one knew where I was.

I sat there a few minutes trying to decide what to do. And then a car pulled up behind me. I would have relished a police car at that moment, but this appeared to be a common SUV. An elderly man stepped out and walked up to my window. “Hello. What is your trouble? We have run out of gas. I’m going to walk up to the weigh station to use the pay phone and call for help.”

I was trembling. I informed him that I, too, had apparently run out of gas. He told me to sit tight. Not that I had any choice.

A few minutes later he returned – literally out of the mist – and informed me that his son was on his way from a nearby suburb and would bring two gallon containers of gasoline. They would then follow me to the next exit with a gas station and make sure I was safe. He then told me that his wife was in the car with a thermos of hot coffee if I would like to join them. And I did! I mean, if this were the unfolding of a Stephen King novel, I wasn’t getting away anyway. I might as well die drinking coffee.

We sat conversing and sipping coffee while their son put gas in both our tanks and started my car. They then followed me to the next exit and down the road a half mile or so of flat farm country to the gas station. I had scraped together a few dollars to afford a gallon or two of fresh gas. I was right behind him in line as we paid the cashier, and had kept just enough money in my pocket to repay him for the gallon of gas they had so kindly gifted me. And when I walked out the door seconds behind him, they were gone. I literally walked out past the gas tanks to look – there were no taillights in the distance. And I knew: they were angels.

Now, were these angels real? Absolutely. Solid as a rock; that I didn’t doubt. Had I just had a surreal, otherworldly experience? Yep.

Many such things have happened since. (Although I have never run out of gas again!) I don’t doubt my experiences any longer. I’m not hallucinating. I’ve never been more sober than in the middle of one of these occurrences. I trust them. When you pray for divine intervention, you’d best accept it however it shows up.

So I told my son about the woman in the grocery store and we laughed and laughed. Exact right place, exact right time. She was my matrix traffic and I hers. There isn’t anything sinister going on. What I call God and he calls the Matrix might be very different in concept and purpose. But it’s always a sign to slow down and notice. To me, at least, it’s always a blessing. Don’t tell me I don’t live in a magical world. And you are right here with me.

Nov4

angels on the sideline again

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“Repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability to lift an eye to heaven, conscious of his fleeting time here…” – Tool

This past week some of my family came to visit. My younger sister and her son. His girlfriend came along to help with the ten hour drive north from Cincinnati. I was glad to meet her, and I was excited to see them. I hadn’t seen her in the two years since my brother’s memorial service. My nephew had brought his three young girls up to visit us last summer. They were “t’weens” then, so who knows when I might see them again. Teenagers have their own busy agendas and are probably less likely to indulge the boring elderly aunt.

This visit had a different purpose, actually. They drove a rented truck up to deliver the granite headstones my sister had made for my parent’s and my brother’s gravesites. Cemeteries are governed by strict laws now that require professional installation and maintenance. They came to oversee that.

We all went out to eat near my home. My son wore his Tool sweatshirt, the one that features the colorful Alex Grey illustration featured on the Lateralus album. I bought him that sweatshirt for Christmas a few years ago, so he put it on without thinking about it – which immediately raised questions. And so began a short conversation about the band Tool.

My son introduced me to Tool years ago. Since my days at the Grande Ballroom in Detroit I have been a heavy metal fan, thank you Black Sabbath. I took my son and friends to their first rock concert as teens. We went to see Metallica. It was great, even if I was way older than the rest of the audience. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for my son and how he enriches my life every day in a million ways. I’m trying to pay attention, because WHO GETS TO BE THIS BLESSED?!

If I’m honest I had mixed feelings about seeing my sister. I love her dearly. We have little in common. Our values are so different. We have a third sister in this area; she and I have no contact. I knew that the two of them were going to meet also. Family, at least mine, is always a mixed bag of emotions. You never know how it’s going to go.

However, I do not have mixed feelings about Tool. I am a die-hard fan for life. I have referred to them as the Mozarts of their generation. Their music is a complex, brilliant treatise on the human condition. As usual…artists are the keepers of the truth, after all. The alchemists who turn our fodder into gold. And now I am also a fan of Band of Echoes. How is this song the perfect metaphor for my family relationships…how is my heart to survive these divisions?

But as it turned out we had a wonderful visit with my family. Politics and religion never entered into the conversation. We are aging. Our younger brother died of a heart attack two years ago. Our time here is fleeting. My sister and I both know that every visit is a privilege and could certainly be our last. We also know that our sons – our beautiful genius sons, will love each other long after we are gone. “Good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise,” as my southern grandmother Mimi would have said.

So as a continuance of our conversation I searched for an acoustic version of a favorite Tool song to share with my sister. I knew she wouldn’t listen to the heavy metal original. We will see how this goes…

Nov3

the work of happiness

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It’s been decades since the dream. I remember it as if it were last night. I was awake, and knew I was “away,” not in my body. Do you call that lucid dreaming? When you know you are asleep in your bed and also awake in this new place? I can’t pretend to understand it when it happens.

But there I was on a hillside looking over a pond, huge old barn on the opposite hill, old white farmhouse behind me. There were a group of us strangers. Somewhere in the Eastern U.S. we had gathered for a writer’s workshop. So early in the morning, and crisply cool this fall day. My head hurt and I was craving coffee.

Patiently we waited our turn to be ferried across the pond in one of two rowboats being piloted by a couple of young men. Students at the nearby college perhaps. The day’s activities would take place in the barn. I was hoping I’d dressed warm enough. Finally, it was just myself and a slightly older woman standing to my left. We approached the boat as it pulled alongside the small platform. Once seated she introduced herself, offering a handshake. “May Sarton.”

As the day went on I would come to find that she was one of the two instructors of the workshop. At some point in time I had the thought, “don’t forget her name when you wake up.” And so without coming fully awake, I reached over to my nightstand and clumsily scribbled m A Y s a R to N and went right back into the dream.

I didn’t remember the dream at all in the morning until I saw the paper. I could barely read what I’d jotted down in the dark. Years before the internet or cell phones, I would have to go the library to research and try to find out if she were actually a real person. Did she exist? If so, was she a writer?

The thing that astonishes me now, remembering the dream, is that I had that experience and still did not realize that I am a writer. I’m only just realizing that, here, today…I wonder if I’ll ever truly believe it.

Nov1

meteor of joy

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Well, it happened that I had a completely different post scheduled for this morning. It’s a closing statement of sorts for the cottage rabbit hole I’ve been lost in the past couple of weeks. I rescheduled it for tomorrow. This just came up in my feed…and, well…it reminded me to appreciate being alive. Look at these faces and feel your heart open. Let’s join them in celebrating 20 years of The Marginalian and the joy of our humanness. “The music is to remind us how short a time we have a body.” – Richard Power

Meteor of Joy: The Young People’s Chorus of New York City Sings Bird Divinations
Oct10

a year from now

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There is no logical explanation for why having a new roof would make me feel more grounded, and yet it has. In the past couple of weeks the roof of my house has been replaced. In the process some of the soffit overhanging the front porch was damaged. It was rotten, and someone almost came right through the rotten wood all the way to the ground below. Undaunted, the roofing contractor had to come back once they had more materials and rebuild that part – that corner – of the house. That was just finished this past weekend, and I am now painting it. I have leftover paint from nine years ago when the house was painted, and fortunately it is still good. It’s amazing how much the color on the house has faded.

Only this morning did I realize that it has been almost a year since the first roofing contractor climbed onto the roof, inspected it, and gave me a quote to repair the structure and replace the shingles. A week or so later my cat died. And before I could catch my breath it was winter. I picked the process up again early this spring once the snow had melted off the roof. And my former husband died. I was reeling.

Then it took months of calls and applications to find financial assistance. Meanwhile every rainfall meant more leaks. It was obvious much of the roof was rotten underneath the shingles. The integrity of the structure was compromised. It was the fourth application process that resulted in manageable financing. And a few more weeks before the contractor was secured and the process began, and is just now finished. I completed the paperwork yesterday, October 8th. And I will finish painting the soffit today. Phew….

When I woke at three-thirty this morning I happened to glance over and see the torn envelope the final paperwork had come in. It sparked a thought – the past year, October to October has felt like a decade. The thought I had was, “Just think where I will be a year from now….”

A year from now my copies and receipts from this work will be in the back of the filing cabinet. I’m guessing – and hoping – that I will not have given the roof a thought for months. A solid roof is a given in a maintained house. Let’s get back to taking that for granted here. What else might I take for granted, and what shall I be far more aware of not taking for granted?

A year from now life might look quite different. I will be well into my seventy-fourth year, the same age as this house. I may or may not be living in this house. If I am here, it will have been ten years. I had a signed purchase agreement for this house on October 31st, 2016. It was the longest purchase and moving process I’ve ever experienced; I wouldn’t move until almost four months later, during a raging blizzard, of course. With two beautiful elderly little dogs. The cat would surprise us a year later.

I am not the same person I was then. I am not the same person I was a year ago. I suspect you aren’t either. And I don’t know about you, but I am constantly surprised by the changes. It isn’t that we don’t expect change, and even work toward the changes we desire…but there are constant surprises along the way. There are expectations and there are un-expectations, aren’t there?!

It has taken so long for me just to begin to grow up. I’m paying attention now. From here on out, for however long this dream lasts, I don’t want to take a minute of it for granted. It has taken me so long to learn to love my life.

Perhaps you remember that I had mixed feelings about this house right from the get-go. The long, drawn out process had almost fallen apart twice. Both times I heard in meditation, “you are being placed.” I believe that still, with all my heart. I was placed here. I belong here. For now. That doesn’t mean it’s my “forever” home – a term I abhor, btw. Oh, I get the concept of a lifelong home. I will certainly have an address with a dwelling attached to it on the day of my death, whether I die there or not. My forever home is not on this planet.

And I’ve thought now quite a bit about moving. I bought this house for the dogs! Truly, while there were preferences considered, the one non-negotiable was no stairs for the little old dogs. It’s almost laughable, because this house has lots of stairs, even to get to the front door. But no stairs in and out of the doors to the yard. Easy for short legged creatures.

For this aging five-foot-six creature there isn’t much I like here any more. Perhaps I can also belong somewhere else. But this is not the time to be moving, as winter fast approaches. Maybe in the spring. Maybe. Meanwhile, I want to become better at paying attention right where I’m sitting.

When it looked like the roof might actually get replaced months ago, I began to fantasize about moving yet this year. As most of us would do, I began to scour the market to see what was available. Well…anyone who has played with that idea this past year has had an education. That’s why I used the word fantasize…ha!

And yet, Dr. Ned Hallowell says that ADHD people are eternally optimistic; you cannot keep them down. They never give up. I agree. ADHD superpowers intact – still I dream. Here’s the thing about this: I was placed. I’m not leaving until I am re-placed. That means a lot, and it means a lot of different things all at once. It means that I am more committed than ever to living my life faithfully, as in trusting my intuition – my connection to spirit.

It means that a year from now, I will have had a year of attending to my ADHD and learning to work with it. I didn’t like the medication, so I am back to researching natural ways to best manage my symptoms when they rise. And recognizing them faster, before they completely derail me. They have been invoking fear for the better part of 73 years now. Now I see it in all it’s subtle incarnations. Like, in all the circuitous ways it incapacitates my creativity. A year from now I will have been living a more creative life.

So I found my dream house. But I couldn’t make it happen. I prayed about it endlessly. I did everything I could think of to get the roof done here; the project dragged out for months. I did not call a realtor to find out where I stood; I did not inquire about selling my house as-is; I did not look for a new mortgage or even see what I might qualify for. I did not move a cell of my being toward the goal. I froze in fear. And I am not being re-placed there, or anywhere else at this time. There is a pattern here. It has to be drop-in-my-lap easy, apparent, straightforward – or I don’t even try. THAT, my dears, is straight-up ADHD shame.

After all…who the hell do you think you are?! How dare you be so ungrateful for all you have…and on and on. It happens the voice of poverty sounds an awful lot like my Dad. Who am I to want more?! I have been given a low interest government mortgage that made it possible to buy this house. I have been given a grant for part of the roof and a zero percent interest loan for the rest. For a senior citizen living on social security I have got it pretty darn good. I need to be more grateful. Does this mean I shouldn’t want anything more? Or different? Now that I am more aware of how ADHD shows itself, where it limits and where it frees me, I know that regardless of the outcome, the journey toward self discovery is the only dance in town. And you won’t get anywhere by not taking any risks.

“Action is the antidote to fear.” – Jack Boland

A year from now I pray you are still here, checking in to see what kind of magic shenanigans Susan has gotten herself into. I’ll tell you one thing for sure – it won’t look anything like it does today. Let’s dream together, shall we? Where would you like to be a year from now?

Oct1

one less egg to fry

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We’re having November today, this last day of September. It’s Michigan, so…it is raining and I am grateful. Grateful it isn’t snowing – which feels like it could be just two degrees away. And it is dark. Perfect weather for me these days. I am dark. The sadness does not seem to be subsiding. I guess I thought it would by now. There is definitely a risk that this mood has become habitual; my new default.

It is not quite noon yet and I have managed to tick off two people already. Said the wrong thing the wrong way. It’s a talent and the day is young. It’ll happen again. You could be next.

Meanwhile, I think I’ll just go back to bed and start over later – right after I feed the birds. I’ve been feeding the songbirds again the past few weeks. I had stopped the past couple of years because of the resident bear. The bear has disappeared. That makes me sad. Not that I wanted to get to know the bear personally, but I did feel it had a right to be here, out in the country. Apparently the DNR did not agree. They “relocated” it. I don’t even want to know what that means.

The songbirds bring me joy. And I seem to have little joy these days. I’m having to learn to find joy in new ways. The old sources of my happiness are not working. Birdseed is a small investment, and although money is too tight for comfort, I will find a way to afford it. I feel like I can’t afford not to. I’m taking it out of the grocery budget, which has taken a hit lately anyway. No more pizza or carry out, less organic produce, a few less eggs. Anyway, it’s worth it. I’ve managed to be healthy for 73 years so far; I’ll manage a while longer. Birdsong goes a long way toward bolstering my mental health.

Bird seed also invites mice and squirrels, and they like to find their way inside this time of year. It’s quite nice in here. But the house has had some recent reinforcement, so hopefully it won’t prove a problem. Some of this I’ve done myself in the way of simple tasks like caulk and insulation stuffed in cracks and around doors. I’ve cleared the vegetation away from the foundation and spread gravel. And this past week we got a new roof! Woohoo! Now, that is cause for celebration. Of course, in my little AuDHD brain I had conjured all manner of great and good imaginings about the effect this would have on lightening my stress. It hasn’t come to pass. Yet.

The job is not entirely complete, though it will be soon. As much of the house structure is original to it’s 1955 build, some of the attic was discovered to be rotten. Apparently one of the crew put a foot all the way through the soffit overhanging the porch. It is now hanging in splinters from a gaping hole…talk about inviting critters in! Fortunately no one was injured, the materials have been ordered, and the contractor will return to make the necessary repairs. I am relieved. The agency paying for the roof had a contigency allowance, and they will grant me the few hundred dollars overage to the loan. Phew! I am grateful beyond words.

Somehow I am still sad. I maintain that there is an anxiety that sets in as dusk comes, a kind of “sundowners syndrome” that I believe is related to ADHD; it subsides with darkness. So I try to distract myself from it in the evenings with television series and movies, but it is a teeter-totter of emotions. Binge-watching the new Mackenzie Crook series, Small Prophets, was absolutely delightful. As you would expect. But I made the mistake last night of watching an Irish film, 500 Miles, with one of my favorite actors, Bill Nighy. Loved listening to him with an Irish accent! It’s a beautiful film actually. But so sad. Don’t watch it unless you’re ready for a cathartic wail. Nobody does sad like the Irish. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me…my Irish is showing…

You and I both know this pervasive sadness is straight up grief. It began with the death of my familiar last October. My beloved feline companion died after an infection from a simple medical procedure. It’s been almost a year. Then my former husband died unexpectedly from a fall in April. That has really hit me hard. And then my son’s near death experience this summer. The hits just keep on coming! At any rate, it has never been like me to be so sad for so long. But things are different now. I am different now. I am far more vulnerable. And far more available to it.

I’m not telling you this to garner sympathy – I’m telling you this in hopes that you might not have to go through this same intensity of grief for this extended period of time. I know you can’t avoid loss or grief. I know you can’t control it. But here’s what I wish I would have done sooner: I wish I would have practiced gratitude like my life depended on it. ‘Cause, guess what? It needs to be habitual – our new default. It takes practice, the noticing. So let’s practice, and while we are doing that, I’ll be out back in the shed…

Sep11

walk this way

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“What a mess I have made with nothing but an idea that I am not enough.” – Chloe Frayne

I’m up early in one of my snits again, and don’t see why you shouldn’t have the benefit of my wisdom – insert laughing emoji face here – such as it is. It’s been a busy week. Most of my busy happens inside my skin, but it is happening all the same…although I have also had many external distractions. Wonderful distractions, actually. Those usually show up as friend blessings for me.

But a conversation with a friend a few days ago has been playing in my head, and we all know what ADHD does with those, yes? I believe the word for it is perseverate. Gotta love the English language. I certainly do. And that is what the continuing convo in my pea-pickin’ little brain is on about this morning.

In the middle of a perfectly normal, innocent conversation about the tarot something interesting came up. The tarot be like that. It’s a sparkler to my dynamite. The Devil card came up. It’s one of my favorite cards. It’s always a gift. It’s the card of addiction. And if you think you don’t have any of those, well…you just keep telling yourself that. If you are reading this with human eyes, you are in the cult of addicts. You have been programmed since you were forming in utero. But I digress…

Addictions include our persistent attachment to the way things turn out. “My way or the highway” we used to say. It’s one thing to draw a line in the sand, to have healthy boundaries – as long as you are doing that consciously. Sometimes – just sometimes – we are limiting our perception of possible solutions by our automatic reactions to how things can work. That, and I hate to have to tell you this, is an addiction. A behavior so well practiced that it has formed neuro-pathways in your ever-lovin’ little brain and now your thoughts are not creative – they are conditioned. You are operating on auto-pilot. And the Devil shows up to say, “yoo-hoo! What mess have you gotten yourself into this time?!”

My friend is fairly new to the tarot, and as is often the case, certain cards still cause concern. I like that approach, actually. It’s why I have always loved teaching the tarot. Be a skeptic. Always be a skeptic. That’s a healthy approach to any new learning. As Elizabeth Gilbert wisely says, be just 5% more curious than afraid. Unless it’s a bear.

Okay. So, in aforementioned conversation, we came upon the subject of negative energies, or demons. They scare her. They should. They are nasty buggers, and I don’t care if they are “real” or thought forms or narcissists or an idiot with a semi-automatic or fascists or whatever. Let’s just categorize them as anything that doesn’t feel good. I gots ’em…we all gots ’em. They aren’t going away. This week they are stealing my identity and charging shit I didn’t authorize. And yeah, I’m pissed. On so many levels.

Meanwhile, here is what I told my friend, and apparently need to hear myself: they have all the power you sign over. They have no dominion over you unless you agree to it. Believe when I tell you, I have met them. They are not invisible to me. So, how do we deal with them? WE SPEAK. Directly to their ugly faces. Take a breath. Speak AT them. These words – like you fucking mean it! “GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!”

“IF YOU ARE NOT OF THE LIGHT OF CHRIST, BE GONE NOW!” And to yourself: “I command my spirit into my body in full at this time!” (Thank you, Carolyn Myss)

Repeat after me: I COMMAND MY SPIRIT INTO MY BODY IN FULL AT THIS TIME! And while I’m at it, “Hey Archangel Michael – some help here!”

My friend was taken aback. She had never heard me speak like this before. She knows me as a witch. It never would have occurred to her that I was religious. You could say she was shocked. “Do you have to believe in Christ?” she asked me. I told her demons don’t mess with me anymore. Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight, and don’t call a therapist when an exorcist is needed. Bitch, please. I’m from Detroit.

I am sorry I did not answer her that day. There were others in our conversation who went on talking and asking other questions, and I never got back around to answering. So I’m doing so now. I will share this with her, as I am with you. I think it’s important in our current sit-u-a-tion.

The short answer is no. Christ does not care if you “believe” in him or not. It is not a requirement. I am not Catholic. I was not raised to be religious. Quite frankly, I don’t believe in religion. It’s a cult mentality. It scares me, in a creepy clown horror film sort of way. Because – and please, if you don’t hear anything else I ever say, hear this – Christ is not a Christian. Actually, the man known as Jesus the Christ was a middle-eastern black Jew…but, anyway…also hear this: CHRIST IS GOD. Period. What is God? God is consciousness. Therefore! CHRIST IS CONSCIOUSNESS!

And consciousness is life force. And if you don’t think it’s smarter than you, well, good luck to ya. And newsflash – you need do nothing to access this consciousness. You’re breathing it. When we are suffering, we are practicing denial of our nature. If you need any help with denial, I’m your gal. I have mastered that routine.

SO. In conclusion – why do these words work (and they do)?! Because words are how we exercise power. Words. Language. Would those words work in Farsi? In German? In Bantu? In French? I expect they would…but I don’t know those languages. I speak English.

And, so, when I speak those words, I am speaking a ritual that has been practiced for thousands of years. Don’t reinvent the wheel. Or, as I “heard” this morning in meditation, “who told you life had to be decoded?’

Sep7

’til there was you

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“It was love and I lived in it. And it is grief, and I will carry it.” – Chloe Frayne

No secret to anyone I’ve been in a funk lately. A funky funk. Ugly cry at the least mention of a name or the sight of a dog or cat. Not good company. But I am blessed with friends who simply don’t care how surly or snarky or blubbery I am on any given day. Imagine that. I call them spiritually generous, and I have to confess that I am not so magnanimous. I come up against my own myopic self importance daily. It never ceases to shock and appall.

All this amounts to the only logical explanation: I am melting. I’m like the wicked witch of the west and life doused me with a bucket of water. Unlike the witch, I am melting slowly…taking my sweet time. The “I” I thought I knew so well is disintegrating. And as Anne LaMott so wisely quipped: everything I let go of has claw marks.

One of my generous friends had invited me to a lovely event last week and I cancelled at the last minute, after she’d bought tickets. I had a migraine. Those are coming to the surface again lately as I melt. How did she respond? Well, she asked if she could take me out to brunch later in the week. Those kind of friends. Her voice has never once hinted “what an ass.” Not that her year has been a walk in the park either.

So yesterday we met at a restaurant halfway between us. In she walks with a gift bag, bright tissue paper peeping out the top. A box of new watercolors. Encouragement. Hope. She believes in me. She is the embodiment of grace and I can’t help but wonder what I did to deserve her…must have been good to her in a past life…aka parallel timeline.

We hadn’t seen each other since our road trip to Detroit earlier in the summer. The one where I had her as a captive audience in my speeding car for hours and saw fit to lambast her with my latest attack of trauma-induced rage. Talk about stuck in self pity; I’m the gold standard. And yet, in she walks for whatever comes up, glutton for punishment. Mind you, it was a small public place. Much safer bet on her part. And it wasn’t that I was in a much better headspace these months later. Nope. Still stuck. Still depressed. Still waiting on divine intervention to pull me out of the muckety-muck.

She showed up anyway. I had mentioned this meeting to another friend on the phone early that morning, moaning about how broke I am that I shouldn’t be going out anywhere; I shouldn’t even be spending the gas to get there. Only to discover later that she had sent me brunch money via Paypal. She did say, “you need to get out of the house. Go!” A third friend who I had also cancelled on last week asked me: “What does support look like for you right now?” She wouldn’t have liked my first thought. It was very whiney. Why does anyone even like me?!

My God I am blessed to have these extraordinary women in my life.

And something did shift yesterday morning at breakfast. First of all, the 20 minute drive itself was transformative. It had rained all week, humidity contributing to the headaches. But Saturday was a glorious, sunny morning. I was almost pain free. The M22 drive was through dense green hills, along the Lake Michigan shoreline with shy glimpses of towering dunes off in the distance. Alone, quiet…as if it were all being presented for me. Who could be sad?

My friend has been going through a difficult time, too…don’t think I know anyone who isn’t, actually. She just went through applying for government assistance to clean up her flood damage. Last year a violent hail storm destroyed her homes’ siding and roof. We all seem to be melting, physically and metaphorically. And I asked her point blank, “how do you stay so hopeful? Gracious? How do you do it?” We laughed and we cried over our avocado toast. We got some sideway glances from the waitress. Can’t tell me she’s having an easy time of it. Maybe she was hoping she’d overhear a snippet of wisdom from the two grey hairs at table 6. Good luck, darlin’.

But I am here to tell you something I realized just then – right there in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, nobody that I am. I wouldn’t trade any of this for the world…

Tearing up again, I said to my friend: “For some reason I may never come to understand, I feel as if a thousand million possible timelines all converged at the moment of my birth and somehow I chose exactly the right one.”

She and I will often talk about houses. We love houses, architecture, design. Occasionally we accompany each other to view some new fantasy cottage dream we saw on a real estate site. We are constantly perusing all the listings and “fiz-bo’s” – for sale by owners, hoping to discover some great deal everyone else missed. Hey – it happens. I’ve bought them. Maybe you have. But we finally admitted something to ourselves yesterday: we have spent our lives looking for a place to belong.

Because nothing has ever compared to the home and family we each grew up in. As privileged and magical and fantastic and horrible and hearbreaking and inspiring as it was all at the same time. I admit that I don’t know how to reconcile that. Something waits back there, before I was aware enough to decipher it’s code…something necessary to move forward. Something precious. Something that made me me, and made you you. And I got it, right there that very second. Given the opportunity to do it all differently – I wouldn’t.

Aug3

the better end of the deal

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“The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.” – Gloria Steinem

In my sweet little blessed life here I was recently swimming in the warm, clear water of Crystal Lake. Out from the beach at my friend’s summer cottage, not another person in sight. She was thanking me for something – oh, driving her around, as she had flown in from her home in another state. She had bought me dinner the previous night. Our conversation turned into a back and forth of silly compliments and thank yous. Standing on a soft sand blanket, shoulder deep in blue water as far as my eye could see, I said, “well…I got the better end of the deal.”

That was the day after I got home from attending The Detroit Book Festival with another friend. She needed to attend for business and had asked me to drive her downstate. Not only because I know my way around, but because I have often bragged that “if you can drive in Detroit, you can drive anywhere.” It was a chance to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak. However she paid for gas, hotel and fabulous meals in return. She also provided one on one counseling – not sure she knew she’d signed up for that, but that’s what transpired along the way. When I dropped her home she thanked me. “Well, I got the better end of that deal,” I replied. I didn’t say it lightly.

Days before my father died he said to me, “I sure hope your friends are going to take care of you in your old age.” He was implying that my family would not, because I had not taken care of him properly in his old age. And I had abandoned my siblings. The five of them (my mother being long dead) had unanimously agreed that they were done with me. They had put up with me long enough. They wouldn’t speak to me for years after my father died, or ever again in the case of my brother.

My father was in the hospital for a life saving surgery. His heart would give out a few days later. I think he knew he was dying, and it was his final chance to let me know how disappointed he was with me. My sister yelled at me to shut-up that afternoon and I would leave in tears. My father was almost deaf and apparently I was speaking loudly – as I had gotten used to doing in the recent years he had lived with me. Perhaps I, too, have become somewhat hard of hearing. For whatever reason, I was embarrassing them. They made it clear they did not want me there. This wasn’t anything shocking or new. I was their burden to bear. To say that I never fit in was a gross understatement; I was an albatross in a flock of swans.

Decades had passed since I’d left home – decades of therapy, ACOA meetings, and self examination. Failed marriages. Failed businesses. The loss of my mother. The loss of friends. I’d raised a child with his narcissistic father – who, by the way, my family loved and got along with. My mother lent him the seed money to start his own business right after our divorce. She didn’t tell me that, he did. He leveled it as evidence of how stupid and crazy I was to leave him. He won. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d gotten the better end of the deal.

My family has always told me that I am lucky, wielded this announcement disdainfully like an accusation. In fact, I am lucky. And I do not take for granted that I have fared better than they have in life. I had a better education, for one thing. But years before that I was lucky in birth order – eldest, and specifically because my maternal grandmother was close. She was a huge influence in my upbringing. And as I’ve said before, my parents addictions were not yet in full swing. My Mother was 19 when she was pregnant with me. My father was in the army and so Mom and I lived the first 8 months of my life with my grandparents in a big Tudor house in Detroit. I remember playing as a toddler in that magical house with it’s many secret nooks and crannies. My siblings have no recall of it at all. I’ve imagined my grandparents arguing about the decision to drive us to Texas, where my father was stationed, and drop us off with him. I’ve dreamt about it. I’m guessing my grandmother could hardly bear the idea, but that my grandfather felt it was the only possibility of my father taking responsibility for his young family.

Three years later we would return to Michigan. My father went to work for my grandfather. Mimi was often my babysitter. In grade school I would ride my bike to her house, often with friends in tow. We knew we could count on lots of food and goodies, and a quarter to spend around the corner at the 5 & Dime. So lucky.

I fared much better than my younger siblings in so many ways. They have lived with ongoing health problems, plagued with cancer and heart issues. Now in my 70’s I’ve still had neither – how’s that for lucky?! They have all four battled the demons of addiction – to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes and gambling. I’ve not had that to deal with. They have all faced homelessness more than once. It is true they were not so lucky.

And now in my old age I live quite an isolated life. I have lost more loved ones than remain. Thankfully I have a handful of close friends. I can count on them. They can count on me. A chosen family. It sure feels like I’m getting the better end of the deal.

If you were to ask me today my greatest achievement in life, I would say it’s having learned to value kindness in the face of cruelty. Not entirely. God knows I’ve slipped up more times than I care to admit. I’ve certainly been cruel at times. But I hope I am becoming kinder with age. It is a choice, a choice that requires practice. Kindness and curiosity are the way forward, of that I’m sure.

Feeling like I got the better end of the deal isn’t about comparison to anyone else. It isn’t a competition. It’s about being grateful. I want you to feel like you’re getting the better end of the deal when we are together, and I want to feel like I am. That’s why I say it; it reminds me how grateful I am to be with you, here, now. It’s a “just pinch me” moment. How lucky are we?!

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.