Category Archives: mental health

Aug26

going home…

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When my son was 15 I began teaching him to drive. At that time you could get a “student permit” one year before you were old enough to get your license, but then you could practice driving as long as there was an adult in the car. Driver’s training was a required class for all sophomore high school students. That year for Mother’s Day my card contained a Backseat Driver’s License, officially signed by then Secretary of State, Mac U. Nervus. My son is nothing if not funny! I carried that in my wallet for years, and I do not know what happened to it. Probably wore it out.

My son is a good driver, which I cannot say about my former husband. He reminds me of the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. He was declared legally blind about the age of 2 and wore thick “Coke bottle” glasses taped to his head throughout childhood. And with a ‘Little Man Tate’ genius IQ, he graduated college at the age you and I were graduating high school. In retrospect, we now know he is autistic. I used to marvel at how I could rattle off numbers to him, my own human calculator, and he could add them in his head and give me an accurate total faster than the computer. But he couldn’t change a lightbulb. That task, like many others you and I do daily, would frustrate and overwhelm him.

Shortly after he and I met lasik laser surgery became readily available. With that miracle and a regular pair of glasses he qualified for a driver’s license. Just because the state issued him one does not mean he can drive. He’s a menace on the road, but he has never been in an accident. I’m sure he’s caused a few…

Last week we met for lunch in the city where he lives, about an hour from me (yes, by design.) I had mentioned in a phone call that I had an appointment that was bringing me in to town. During our lunch conversation he asked about the tires on my new (to me) car and offered to purchase a set of tires if I would follow him to the shop up the road. You know where this is going? Ha! Wait for it…

We met at his favorite restaurant, Big Boy. Leaving the restaurant, we would have to turn left onto a busy 55mph five lane highway. He pulled right out into oncoming traffic and zoomed out ahead miles before I could safely turn…and…he lost me. He would say I lost him, and he’s right – I can’t keep up. But as I frantically searched for the tire store and finally turned in, relieved to be alive, he called. Where the heck was I? What was taking me so long?! And I looked and looked and couldn’t see him anywhere. I sat still two minutes knowing he would call back. He did. He couldn’t see me, either. It occurred to me to ask him what he could see (we’ve been at this over 30 years) and of course, we were NOT in the same location.

He had driven to the place of my appointment – NOT the tire place at all. My appointment had nothing to do with him and we had not discussed it. (I had mentioned it in our previous phone conversation.) It was an entirely spontaneous decision on his part, but he thought I was right behind him, and would follow him in…so, no need for communication. But now he was angry with me; I hadn’t kept my part of the agreement – which was to follow him. And now I would have to turn left out into heavy traffic twice again, once toward the appointment location where he waited for some unknown reason, and again leaving for home. It was nerve wracking to say the least. By the time I got there about 20 minutes later I declined his offer to wait for me and then go buy new tires. By this time I was a nervous wreck. He wasn’t. He was just confused. After all, he was just trying to help. If this sounds a bit like senility, I must tell you that it’s been this way the entire time I have known him. It’s just SOP with Magoo. Obviously he must be an enlightened master because he is cool and collected in the midst of chaos. Even if he did cause it.

Here I sit at seventy wondering why my nerves are shot. I’m not saying this is my former husband’s fault; far from it. He was one in a loooonnnng line of crazy-makers I have lived with all my life. You know about crazy-makers, right? (We have one running for President if you need an obvious example.) People who have some innate talent for wreaking havoc all around them without being affected. They’re everywhere; every family has them. My family was full of them. Grandfather, father, aunt, sister to name a few. Of course I attracted them in my adult relationships; they were familiar. The less susceptible you are to gaslighting, the more covert their passive aggressiveness becomes. But I’m by no means immune, and maybe never will be.

As I have talked about in former posts, I’m not havoc-ing it any more. It takes a varying degree of upset for me to register the crazy making, but the moment I catch it happening, I’m out. I will still love them, just from a distance. Will my nerves ever heal? I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, Going Home is my new old theme song, from the greatest movie soundtrack ever written. Close your eyes and listen. Everything will be alright.

Aug21

a wild night

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Part of me feels like I should come clean about something. All this soap box espousing about raising our consciousness and waking up and becoming more self aware sounds inspiring, doesn’t it? Did I forget to mention that it makes life harder? Yes, that’s right. Not easier. Harder.

When you are committed to personal growth, or perhaps you naively just want to live a more creative life, things are gonna get rough. You’re a boat rocker. You want more than the other people around you want for you, or believe you are capable of. Those people you lived with growing up are not going to like this. The people you work with are not going to like this. The friends you know you can count on aren’t going to like it. They have an agenda, consciously or not, and it is not your agenda. 99.9% of the time it will not leave any space for you to stretch your wings – it will be all about slowing and deferring any change. To the best of their ability.

In an interview years ago, I remember Oprah talking about her friendship to Gayle, saying that she stayed “after the leap,” and that the majority of people will not. But she didn’t know that would be the case when she decided to up her game and strive for success. None of us realized what it would mean to develop healthy boundaries, to speak up when we became aware of dysfunction around us. We didn’t know that it would be so challenging for those around us. We didn’t know.

Heads up: your relationships are going to fall apart. There is a popular tarot deck called This Might Hurt. Haha! While I am not a fan of the artwork and don’t use this deck, I sure love the name of it. Yes. The tarot is a brilliantly designed tool for self development. Practicing with it will open you up and make you more self aware and much more intuitive. And it will hurt; that’s a guarantee. That genie ain’t goin’ back in that bottle.

I remember at one point in my 20’s thinking all my families’ troubles were caused by my father’s alcoholism…and then a decade or two later realizing that some of us are autistic or had ADHD. And then learning about narcissism. And it goes on and on. You see it and you can’t unsee it.

The truth will out. What you think today is the cause of your frustration, or your unhappiness, or your illness will open a can of worms. Today is the tip of the iceberg and it is melting faster than you can imagine. And you are going to have to take responsibility for having started the fire underneath. Oh, and learn to swim…

I was in my sixties when my father died and my four siblings stopped speaking to me. I was recently divorced, grieving and more isolated than I ever could have imagined. My son wanted little to do with me. When I lost my elderly dog I grieved like never before; I suspect it was a cumulative grief. I could justify all of this discord; I had learned through hardship how to set boundaries and they did not like the new me – the person they could no longer gaslight and manipulate. I had been told one too many times that I would never be able to take care of myself. I had better stay. I had better be quiet. I had better be nice.

My darling Mother used to say to me, “It must be lonely at the top, Susan…” It was leveled as an accusation. She didn’t understand why I was so different, so confrontative. Obviously I thought I was better than the rest of them. But that wasn’t true. I saw them as remarkable, brilliant, so very full of potential and settling for so little. I wanted them to join me on this journey. I didn’t want to be lonely; I still don’t. Please don’t leave me…yet in truth, I was leaving them. I had seen through the superficiality of their choices and I wanted deeper connection. I wanted to matter. I wanted them to know that they mattered. Really, really mattered. But they didn’t see what I saw.

Almost every person I have ever loved has struggled with addiction. Eventually I have lost most of them, either to death, or by extricating myself from their insatiable neediness in order to have some semblance of peace. I stopped housing them. I stopped driving them. I stopped working for them for almost nothing. I stopped giving them money. I stopped defending them. I stopped allowing them to use me.

Codependency is my addiction. It is theirs, also, masked by alcohol or drugs or gambling. By the grace of God I have not had those to overcome. But once I realized this and stopped tolerating bad behaviors, I woke up and saw the part I played in the destruction. And I can’t do it anymore. I’ve had to re-evaluate my values, my priorities, my own behavior. And yes, it is lonely at the top. But something deep inside me knows that this is the only dance in town, this seeking for the truth, this prioritizing mental health, this commitment to growing up.

Decades ago in meditation I heard “do not squander your father’s inheritance.” I dismissed that as I knew my father had no money to leave his children. What the heck did that mean? Now I wish I could remember when I heard that, but it still applies today. Today I would write that sentence differently: Do not squander your Father’s inheritance.

Aug20

unzip yourself

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“You don’t have to be a genius. You can just be honest.” – Yulia Mahr

Can I? Before I can possibly be honest with anyone, I must be honest with myself. I have so many blind spots in my psyche, so many un-self-awarenesses. It’s not for lack of trying. I do want to grow up before I outgrow this life. Now at this late stage I tend to be repulsed by immaturity, by any lack of humility or gratitude in anyone I meet. The second I sense an inkling of entitlement I am frantically searching for an exit. And yet I catch myself expounding my entitlement in the most unaware statements of idiocy. And cringe.

And so I am drawn to humility like a moth to flame. I also know from a lifetime of experience that false humility is the narcissist’s favorite coat. The wolf has gutted the sheep and stolen it’s skin, and it is dangerous to get too close. As life threatening for me as the dis-eases I have battled these past few months – Lyme, Covid and E.Coli. Deadly.

Yes, I do believe there is an equal psychology to every pathology. The truth will out; which is to say that our unconscious and unresolved childhood hurts will eventually kill us. Every one of us. Even you. Science informs us that the unstressed human body would live far longer than we do, that number being somewhere between two and five hundred years, debated in the higher echelons of biology. But we don’t.

And while I did learn studying Neuro-linguistic programming that “the reason is always a parent.” (- Virginia Satir, Peoplemaking, The Emotional Hostage) we cannot blame our parents for this. They were just as embroiled as we are, perhaps more so. They had far fewer resources and opportunities. That is not meant as an excuse for their hurtful behaviors. But I am increasingly convinced that there is an entity responsible, and it is an unhealthy culture.

There is no actual biological justification for war. Or famine. Or poverty. Or control of any kind. Again: OR CONTROL OF ANY KIND. It is entirely unnecessary and it is unhealthy. Here we are in the 21st century of recorded history just beginning to catch a whiff of the fact that perhaps the indigenous tribes of the world were doing alright without colonial intervention…they lived in a culture of cooperation. What was good for an individual was good for the collective. They lived instinctively, intuitively. They didn’t need weather radar. They sensed inclement weather and acted accordingly. We built defenses.

I am not about to go live off the land at this age. I am unequivocally uninterested in surviving any major disaster, natural or manmade. I fear pain and suffering, not being dead. How do we heal our culture? Hell if I know. I do know, however, that we are not getting out of here intact without exercising our creativity. I know it’s the way. Remember, ultimately, it will be the artists who save us.

Aug18

tangible evidence

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“Artists love other artists. Shadow artists are gravitating to their rightful tribe but cannot yet claim their birthright.” – Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way

Since I have been ill the past few weeks I have been binge watching a British show called Portrait Artist of the Year. Fortunately it has 11 seasons, each with twelve episodes. It’s so nerve-wracking, and so inspiring. Free to watch through YT. It’s ‘The Voice’ for visual artists; it launches careers. I couldn’t participate in anything like that; I’d fall apart. That is a clue about the psychological pathology I spoke of in yesterday’s post. I simply live too close to the ledge of grief to be so exposed in public.

I do remember one season where they chose to advance an artist who had behaved, to my eye, totally inappropriate in the first round. She was irritable with, and demanding of, the model – to the point of rudeness. She ignored the other two fellow artists who were also painting the same person from other angles. Never mind what they wanted! She micromanaged the group like a herding dog with a flock. The judges must not have caught the bad behavior which showed up in the editing room later. Had I been in that panel of artists I would have told her to sit down and shut up. And maybe decked her, who knows…I’ve never been violent. Yet.

Back in my twenties, going through a divorce from my abusive husband who is the father of my son, I sought counseling. I had experienced it first when a schoolmate in college recommended I see her psychologist sister. It was eye-opening and, of course, I’ve been an advocate since. Counseling is self care. You go to the doctor when you have a health issue, why on earth wouldn’t you get help sorting out the psycho-pathology? Don’t you want to experience your wholeness? If nothing else, this trained professional can offer some objective feedback and tract your emotional health just like a doctor does your physical health. That said, I’ve met some mighty dysfunctional and just-plain-wrong therapists throughout the decades. There are quacks in that field, too. But you don’t give up.

I’ve told this story before, about this talented and insightful therapist I would later study with at Wayne State. When she posed concepts that were foreign to me, I often told her, I need “tangible evidence.” In other words, I wanted proof – preferably in advance – that this crap would work.

Here’s the thing about therapy. And medicine. And art. The evidence takes time. It comes after the healing. As Steven Levine writes in the life changing book Who Dies?, terminally ill patients sometimes die and sometimes recover, and healing has little to do with it either way. Healing means becoming conscious, and it’s an ongoing process. It requires tremendous courage, because no one is coming out of that transformation as the same person they were when they went in. I remember being told that once, when my son was going through cancer treatment. He was going to attend Camp Make-A-Dream in Missoula, Montana. One of the attendant counselors warned me, “your son will not return home as the same person who left.” I was okay with that. I’d have been okay with any part of that bargain, whether I understood it or not. Just keep him alive.

So here’s the deal, McNeal…you have to let go first. You force the exhale before you’re ready…knowing you might run out of air. It’s called faith. That is the main ingredient of healing, of consciousness. Julia Cameron knows it. She calls it spiritual electricity. No lights without it. And it isn’t part of her 12 week process – it’s in the Basic Principles – prior to beginning. Before any tangible evidence that this will work.

You have to consciously decide to trust the process. You pretty much have to be at the point of no return, left with nothing to lose. Sickness will do that for you. Trauma. So will art. They rip you open and lay bare your entire being. Only by being raw and vulnerable do we realize any true healing. ACIM (A Course In Miracles) says it best: In my defenselessness my safety lies. That’s the only place any safety lies.

As far as any art I’ve ever shown, or writing for that matter, it has rarely met with any encouragement at all. I had one instructor who marked my essay “don’t give up your day job.” And a close trusted friend who I showed a drawing to respond with: “I don’t get it. But then I’m not one of your groupies.” I’ve also had some amazing encouragement from other instructors, both in writing and art. A grade school teacher entered a painting into the Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards contest unbeknownst to me and I won. I was in 6th grade. Again in 12th grade a teacher entered a poem into a student contest run by The Atlantic Monthly magazine, and they published it. If you don’t consider that tangible evidence, I don’t know what is.

And yet…here I am, at 70, wondering how and why I never pursued any practice in the creative arts. I couldn’t care less about fame or fortune, but some supplemental income would have been great. Some sense of confidence. Some joy. Obviously I am fragile of ego and easily led astray by others’ opinions.

But this ramble is to attest that the faith comes first, called blind because we have to face the unknown without the evidence. I want to heal my root chakra. And my throat chakra. I will speak the truth as far as I know it, always. And I will TRUST that I am safe – not in spite of my vulnerability, but because of it. I’m not done yet – but I am done living in the shadows.

I had the great good fortune of meeting and taking a class with my favorite artist, Elaine Dalcher. She isn’t done yet, either. A kinder, smarter person you will never meet. Nor a better teacher. Wow, has she got a healing story for us. Visit her website: https://www.elainedalcher.com/

Aug17

guru books, the bible

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Watching YouTube videos about these artists has been fascinating. It’s been heartwarming and inspiring. And I am wondering if maybe I could be an artist. In her classic (or should I say epic) workbook, The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron tells us about shadow artists. I remember identifying with this immediately, which would take me back to somewhere around 1993. I’m a shadow artist. For whatever reason I don’t believe I could ever be a real artist. And so naturally I have never worked at any art form – including this one – seriously. But this morning I pulled my original copy of the book out to investigate further. I treasure this book; we’ve been through a lot together for more than thirty years now. I was surprised to find all kinds of cards and notes, and even some of my small paintings, stuffed inside. The pages have yellowed. I can document how my handwriting has changed over the decades in the notes and scribbles throughout.

But what actually shocked me this morning was looking up shadow artists in the index and turning to the page. It’s the entirety of WEEK ONE. As in, start here. And the title of the chapter is Recovering a Sense of Safety. Hit me like a ton of bricks.

For those who don’t know me well, I have been in bed for the past three weeks quite ill. I’ll keep it short here, but what began as an upper respiratory infection led to a diagnosis of E. Coli. On my third trip to the doctor in as many weeks she wanted to admit me to the hospital. My body doesn’t seem to be responding to the antibiotics, which have increased in strength the past week. I objected to being hospitalized and agreed to being monitored every 24 hours this week. I am getting better, it’s just slow. The respiratory infection is gone, albeit leaving behind an annoying cough.

But the doctor is more concerned about the E. Coli. She told me “it is rampant here right now.” Again, oh the joys of living in a resort area where hundreds of thousands come from all over the world to swim in the pristine lakes. I mentioned this to my therapist the day after the diagnosis as she asks to have health updates to keep tract of in her notes. Come to find out she knows 2 unrelated young people who are in the local hospital with this, one in intensive care.

So of course, because I believe that every physical pathology has a psychological/spiritual pathology, I asked in meditation several nights ago; what is at the root of this? And I got it! ROOT. The answer was in the question. That was fast! This is a root chakra blockage. What is the root chakra all about? SAFETY. Not feeling safe in the world.

Am I in any actual real danger? No. But when I ask my sweet innocent inner self if I feel safe? Absolutely not. And I’m old enough and maybe just wise enough to know that affirmations are not going to turn this around. Some internal archeology is required. Joni said it first: “when you dig down deep you lose good sleep and it makes you heavy company.”

So here we go! This is my theme for the coming week – to investigate and report to you dear souls everything I can glean about healing with yet again an ever deepening exploration. I try to suss it out – when did I originally feel unsafe in my environment as a child? I was cared for; I was loved. I was also sexually abused, only snippets of which I have any vivid recall of. That inquiry was quickly shut down by my family and I was gaslit to doubt those memories. Only with the help and wisdom of many counselors, insightful physicians and gifted bodyworkers have I realized over the course of several decades how truly unsafe my childhood home was – and how I unconsciously recreated that environment in my adult life. Never mind waking up to the realization of the macrocosm – that I live in an unsafe culture.

I do know that this exploration, guided by the infinite wisdom of The Artist’s Way, will bring us full circle. You heard it here first: ultimately, it will be the artists who save us. Let’s see if we can become healthier on every level. Let’s heal our bodies and our psyches and then our culture. We owe it to ourselves and our children.

Aug15

a maker of marks

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“Like art, revolutions come from combining what exists from what has never existed before.” – Gloria Steinem

Jean Banas seems to be onto something. She has certainly stumbled upon the true fountain of youth. Such a sweet little old lady…hahahahaaaa! Not. Sweet, yes. Old, maybe. Lady, mmmmm, okay, I’ll give her that. I wouldn’t want to mess with her in a scuffle. She began painting in her 70’s.

She reminds me of my Mother, who didn’t live to see the age of 70. She was tiny and soft-spoken and easy going. And a force to be reckoned with. Let’s not assume that “little old ladies” are ever what they seem. I have a confession: when I started watching some YouTube videos about older artists, I expected to find them discovering their creativity in their sixties and 70’s. Retired, children grown. Making cute things in the basement or garage…I was not prepared for the magnificent inspiration of many, many older artists. Even well into their 90’s and over a hundred years of age – and anything but retiring. I feel as if I’ve only just begun to uncover some tantalizing promise of renewal and rejuvenation. Join me!

Aug9

Into the River with Alpen Kelley

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Who said “Remember, ultimately, it will be the artists who save us.”? I did; I said it. You’ll recognize that quote if you’ve known me any length of time. I’ve been saying it for decades, in conversations, on social media, in my writing. I mean it, too. Let me tell you why I believe it is true, and why I think history proves it.

Artists are the truest reporters of the culture they are living in. They have never fit in, and they never will. They observe subtle, often unspoken, patterns. Long before we see them in everyday life. I’m not sure why that is the case. Perhaps by the very nature of the traits that make them artists they are slow moving, intuitive, and sensitive to nonverbal communication. They find ways to communicate that will bypass the obvious, that will sneak in the backdoor of our mind and get the point across before our beliefs have had a chance to object or rationalize. Think of all of Joni Mitchell’s brilliant lyrics. “Richard got married to a figure skater and he bought a dishwasher and a coffee percolator and he drinks at home now most nights with the tv on and all the house lights left up bright.” You instinctively know exactly what is going on.

This vulnerable transparency is true of visual artists; it is certainly true of musicians, and it is true in the healing arts. Where intellect and education will stretch to conjure a solution, a cure…intuition picks up and extends a loving offer: try this. It doesn’t have to make sense. And something inside us, and our body, recognizes the truth of it.

I remember a fever induced dream. Convalescing in my bedroom during a long illness, I looked longingly out the window – and saw a horse walking down the street. Oh, dear, I thought, someone’s horse has escaped. I grabbed an apple from the bowl on the dining table and ran down the stairs and out into the street, extending my arm to lure the horse. That’s when I realized it was wild, ghost-like, not from around here. The horse smelled the apple and nodded for me to eat it, and I woke. I knew I would begin to heal now, and that apples held some nutritional element I needed for that. I’m not sure that has anything to do with being an artist; however I did get right up and eat an apple. An artist trusts their intuition. They inherently know that God, or whatever you want to call spirit or a higher power, is at play in our lives all the time. And the more we honor that the healthier we will be.

Whether history being unearthed on cave walls or Lady Gaga telling us God makes no mistakes and we were born this way, the artists carry the declaration of our existence, of our why, of our “YES, and I will not be denied.” Because as the poet David Whyte reminds, the world was made to be free in.

Aug1

I’m the CEO of my own company.

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This has been another tough week. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. I try to tough it out, but finally succumb to the exhaustion and call the doctor. I went in again yesterday and am back on yet another course of antibiotics. When I am nauseous and in pain I am impatient and…well, let’s just say less than gracious.

Summer has become my least favorite season for several reasons. One reason is too much activity crammed into the 3 months of warm weather. I prefer cooler weather. And less activity. Quieter. That said, I am blessed to live in a beautiful part of the country (and the world) and summer is busy with visitors. Tourists come from all over the world. Friends and family visit from all over the country. Some have cottages nearby, some rent. My darling nephew came up from Cincinnati in June with his three young girls. They stayed with me in my little one bedroom house. I took the sofa and made the 3 girls camp out on the living room floor next to me. That visit was way too short and absolutely magical. I’m still tingling with delight every time I think of it.

But I was well that week, and now I’m not. It happens that most of my peers, family and friends alike, are retired now. I’m working from home. They are on vacation; I am not. And recently a visiting relative was quite insensitive about bringing that up. Bragging actually, about not having to work in his later years. As if I were not as smart, or had done something wrong. I ignored him, considered the source and all that. The next day I offered a bit of help as they were having to move from hotel to cottage, juggling suitcases and food and outdoor gear. They inquired as to the location of a laundromat and I offered to do their laundry while they went out touristing. I was laying low trying to turn this sinus infection around; I might as well make myself useful. My generosity was responded to with another request. Sadly I have to be reminded now and again that most of my family will take a mile if you give them an inch.

But today after cooking myself some breakfast before taking all the pain medication I can safely take at one time, I caught myself feeling sorry for myself. That’s ugly. I crawled back into bed in hopes of the relief that comes only with sleep…and heard a knock on the front door. Someone knocks on my front door about 3 times a year. I do not live on the way to anywhere (on purpose) and the door is up a flight of stairs, after you’ve managed the 45 degree incline of the driveway. I’m perched high on a hill, also on purpose. The views are great, and more importantly, I’m a destination.

At the soft knock I leapt out of bed, excited. My immediate thought was that it might be a delivery of flowers! Several friends and family members know I am in bed sick and having a hard time. But it was just UPS. The box was heavy and he offered to set it inside the door. I have the kindest UPS driver, Brian, who goes above and beyond. And I was grateful. So was the cat, whose food and litter made up the weight of the box. No, that’s not true – the cat takes me for granted, too. As testament to my being a good pet owner.

And as I shuffled stiffly back to bed, I thought of how odd it was that my first thought was a flower delivery. My mother used to send flowers to me. Always pink tulips on my birthday in March. Often when she knew I was feeling down. Just a little cheer.

But she’s been gone 21 years. In those 21 years I have had exactly one flower delivery. It was dropped outside my door just after losing my sweet little beagle Odie 5 years ago. That came from a dear friend, who has also suffered too much loss and grief. She brought an orchid that is still flowering, and tea and chocolates long gone. How very thoughtful. I have received lovely notes and cards and gifts in the mail from friends, and I delight in sending them occasionally. I wish health and finances allowed for much more of that.

Why don’t we do more thoughtful acts of kindness anymore, myself included? I’m healing now, mentally and emotionally at least, from a lifetime of living with narcissists, with brutish men and defensive women. I’ve had to realize that many of my family were not nice people, albeit I understand their pain and dysfunction. I’ve had to see those traits in myself and work to overcome them. Most importantly, I’ve learned to enjoy my own company. I’m the CEO.

I did lose my patience yesterday. I was short with a dear friend and ornery with my son. All via text, while waiting in an hour long line at the pharmacy. I’m disappointed with myself. I compromised my integrity. Integrity doesn’t allow you to justify bad behavior based on your own needs. I hope I learned something and can do better in the future. My friend and my son were both quite magnanimous about it. My son texted back, “Your feelings are valid. No need for guilt. I love you and I’m grateful for you.” Sometimes words are even better than flowers.

Jul28

Don’t beam me up, Scotty

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Yesterday’s post seemed a bit preachy about what I don’t want. I beg your patience. What I DO want, and have always wanted, is freedom. Peace of mind. That’s my measurement from here on out for the rest of this incarnation, which I hope will be many more years. As Mimi would say, “good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise.” Do I need more exercise to pull that off? I certainly do. So thank you to my dear, dear friends and family who do continue to entice me out to share in activities. I have to pick and choose wisely right now as I am still recovering from a debilitating, albeit invisible, disease. Thank you for not giving up on me.

This delicate balance I seek to find this summer includes what feels like a huge psychological shift. Now in my 7th decade I seem to be just discovering what freedom means – specifically, to think freely. To dig down into the depths of my true being and find out what it is that I really want. Who I truly am. To stop using life energy to flail against what I don’t want. To stop protesting, to stop feeling put upon and pulled at by those around me.

Two or three nights ago now I woke, as I always do, between 3 and 4 a.m. I “heard” the voice in my head, seemingly out of nowhere, stating very clearly: “THERE IS NOTHING AGAINST YOU HERE.” Intuitively I knew that by HERE it meant, in life, on earth, for all time. There is nothing against me. There never has been. And as my old mentor Jack Boland would have said, “therefore, as night follows day…” that means that everything is FOR me.

This concept may take a minute or lifetime for me to grok. I’ll have to get back to you on this…this is what I mean when I say, “on the road to enlightenment, I’m taking the local.” I mean to get it with every cell of my being. Don’t rush me.

Please indulge this idea with me: what if everything is for you? Another long time mentor is Rob Bell. Young as he is, he is onto something. Several years ago I went to listen to him speak in his home town of Grand Rapids, Michigan. He left the evangelical mega church he was pastor of because they wouldn’t let him teach enlightenment. There’s something I might do if you asked – I’d go to hear him speak again. He leads you out – out of the restriction of your personality into your natural state of freedom. He gets it, or as he says, there is no exit strategy here. “This is not an evacuation theology…”

It’s true that I don’t want to go anywhere with you. Because I want to be nowhere with you, as in nowhere = now here.

Jul27

you shall not pass

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Today I feel about 150 years old. It’s summer time here in Michigan, in the little beach town where I live. I’m less than a mile from the beach, and just a mile or two from the national park, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. It is magnificently beautiful. And…what is that new buzz phrase? Um…overtouristed. But many relatives and friends come this time of year to visit, because – let’s be honest – it’s a bear in the winter.

So this morning relatives staying in a nearby resort called and suggested we meet at the beach. I hesitated…but I said okay. Not a resounding yes, but okay. We are old. We are in our seventies. WHO goes to the beach in their 70’s? Turns out, people from Florida. They are READY! Wow. They have the fancy beach chairs in the spiffy carrying bag and the cooler with the sparkling water and the big umbrella with the spike that goes in the sand…I didn’t even know these things existed until this morning. I’m as ready for a day at the beach as I am for the slopes in January. Which is to say: not.

Time for true confessions. I’m an indoorsey kinda gal. Nature terrifies me. Never mind the ticks are trying to kill me, it’s HUMID PEOPLE!!! The sun is so bright. Is that really necessary?! There are people everywhere. Bugs. Poison ivy. Alewives. Eeeewwwwww….it’s mighty uncomfortable for starters. And it stinks. I just don’t get it.

Humans invented air conditioning for a reason. Do you have any little IDEA?! how COMFORTABLE my BED IS?! Why would I ever want to go to a beach?!

I don’t belong here. I am a city girl. Born and raised in the suburbs of Detroit. And I loved it there. The architecture is some of the best in the country. The Detroit Institute of Arts is truly one of the premiere museums in the world. Before I could drive I used to skip school and hitchhike downtown to spend the day in the museum. Or on the 13th floor of the J.L. Hudson building, the furniture floor, moving from vignette to vignette, imagining how I would change the room if it were mine. In junior high and high school I worked downtown for Saks and walked the tunnel under Second Avenue to the Fisher Building for lunch and a manicure. I was in my element.

But life had other plans for me. For reasons I won’t bore you with today, I moved to my “2nd home,” up north, when my son was young. So he grew up here, and he loves it here. And so, here we are. And I do love it here, too. I probably would not choose this rural location if I were deciding today, but I’m here now. In an ideal outdoor playground. They call it Pure Michigan for a reason.

So off I go to meet people at the beach. We didn’t go to any of several close beaches, we drove to an isolated beach miles down a dirt road through the woods, attempting to avoid the crowds. At the mouth of the path from the road’s end down to the water stood a wooden board announcing that you must have a park pass to continue. I had not realized before that this was within the boundaries of the National Park. I don’t have a pass. But I can scan the Q-code with my smarter-than-me phone and buy one online. Except I can’t. It requires you register an account using your email. Okay. But then connect to the purchase app via email. Well, no. I don’t have email on my phone! It’s on my computer at home – WHERE I SHOULD HAVE STAYED. And does the park let you buy a day pass? No. Pay as a guest? No. It seems to me that nothing is user friendly for we old folks who are electronically disadvantaged. And fear federal prison.

Anyway, I’m back home now. I am never going to leave again. I do not want to meet you at the beach. I do not want to go for a hike. Outdoors is overrated. Neither do I want to go to a crowded concert venue, or a movie theater, a loud bar, or the symphony. Been there, enjoyed that. Decades and decades and…decades of that. I’m tired. I like to remind my friends that not all of us here are on vacation.

You are aware, I trust, that they make fabrics now that feel like bunny fur? You can buy slippers and you can also wrap yourself up in it’s goodness in the form of a blanket. And stay warm. In your icy, air-conditioned room with a QUEEN SIZED bed, and a tv with a REMOTE!