The Grace to Let Go

My new favorite author, Barbra McCune, is, as yet, unpublished. I’ve run across her at the monthly Open Mic Night at the Transylvania County Arts Council several times now. Her current work-in-progress, a memoir about her decade as a medical missionary in Honduras, is captivating.   Those of you who follow my blog will recall that Barbra’s work was the inspiration in February for my essay “Enough is a Decision.” I can’t wait for Barbra to publish her memoir. I’ll be first in line to purchase it.

Two weeks ago at April’s Open Mic Night, I read my essay “The In-Between’ – speaking of my life after becoming a widow, but before the next part of my life would begin. After all the other writers read for their allotted four minutes, and the evening concluded, Barbra motioned to me. “When I was entering my 4th year of medical school my husband was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. He died.” She told me my essay had reminded her of what she had written after she and her husband received that terrible news. I asked Barbra if she would share the writing with me, and she agreed.

As with all of Barbra’s work that I have heard, her essay from so many years earlier touched a deep part of me. I think that ability to touch someone’s innermost Self may be one of Barbra’s most significant gifts among the many she has been given.

But, of all the words Barbra wrote about that sad time, there was one sentence that struck me as the most poignant, and the most relevant for me.

The grace to let go of the no longer and the courage to discover the not yet.

So much power in those words. Those words speak about a theology of life, a reality of life, a hope and expectation of life. In short, the words in that one brief sentence give me all the directions I need in order to live a full and healthy life.

How many times have we clung to what is no longer good for us? Or to something or someone who is gone from our lives? To stay trapped in the past, because it is something that feels familiar, even as we honestly know “it” is gone, or wrong, or dangerous for us to remain. We foolishly pine for a miracle, stuck.

Moving towards the unknown is scary as Hell. It is. Anyone who says otherwise must be an adrenaline junkie out for the “rush” that being terrified provides. Think about your life. Going to first grade was scary. Going away to camp for the first time was scary. That first job was scary. And those are all lightweight events that nevertheless instilled some degree of terror in us at the time. As we got older, the scary incidents often became much worse. Like life after the death of a child; life after a divorce; life after the death of a spouse to whom you were married for 38 years.

I think I’m making a lot of progress on “the grace to let go of the no longer.” My husband and I knew he was dying. We had time to prepare. His death, while sudden, was not unexpected. For me, it’s “the courage to discover the not yet” that is scary. I fight against the urge to become a recluse. I strive for the courage to discover the not yet. I know I have a lot of life left in and for me. I want to live my life in communion with others, and maybe even with a special other. Who knows? The future is yet to be discovered. It’s just that scary first step into the “not yet” that I am finding hard to take.

Lying By Omission

It’s always a shock to discover that the person you’ve been talking to for a period of time isn’t the person you thought you knew. If the lying had been outright, obvious, easy to fact-check – well, then it would be the kind of dishonesty that one is accustomed to encountering. But the kind of dishonesty that is created and perpetrated by omitting the truth, well that is an entirely different kind of lying and one that is very hard to uncover.

So how does lying by omission come about? I imagine there are a multitude of ways depending on the person who is spinning the tale, but the short and sweet of it is that the events of the past – true events – are continually used to create a false narrative about the person’s current circumstances.

I have asked myself, is omitting the truth the same as lying? It’s a very fine line and perhaps a distinction without a difference. But leading someone who trusts the teller to believe that “things” are one way when in fact they are diametrically the opposite, and in a very serious way diametrically the opposite – then I have to ask, was the omission intentional? And if so, is that not a form of, if not lying, then certainly a form of dishonesty. Yes, there were red flags which I ignored longer than I should have, but once the story began to fall apart, I couldn’t ignore them any longer. So, I looked for the truth.

I am heartsick about what I discovered, for the truth that has been omitted is so significant that it has shattered all the trust I had in a particular individual. And I know it has colored my ability to trust moving forward at a time in my life where trust is paramount.

What remains is incredible sadness. And a very hard and painful lesson.

The In-Between

Once a month I spend a couple of hours with a small and intimate group of women. We are all in recovery from alcohol, but we aren’t there because of that addiction. Instead, we are there to talk about life. To talk about our individual journeys, to share joy and sorrow, to support and to listen. All of us are in our 70’s save for the one we affectionately call “the baby.” At the age of 67 she may actually be a toddler or even a pre-teen, but you get the idea.

The passage of time, and the shortness of our remaining time, does not escape our attention. My friend Jinx shared that as she approaches her 75th year she has come to truly understand that now is the time to do what she needs or wants to do, to see people she cares about, to accept that most of her life is behind her, and that what is ahead must be honored, cherished and lived. In other words, Jinx has a plan, albeit perhaps a loose one, but a plan nevertheless. A plan for action.

But what about me? When my friends asked me what was going on with me, I answered without thinking “I’m in the in-between.” I don’t think I had ever heard or read of that particular phrase – the in-between – it just popped out of my subconscious and jumped off the end of my tongue. But as often happens when the deep Soul has grasped a truth, the answer burst forth to grab my attention and to make me think.

The in-between is a quiet place, at least most of the time. It has little energy. Action in the in-between requires a concerted effort. Time is slow, often boring, interest in doing is mostly absent. Food has little taste, and nothing sounds good – neither food, entertainment, social activity, or much of anything really. It is a time when, for me, creativity is hard to find.

The in-between can exist in one’s life for lots of reasons and at many different points in one’s life journey. The in-between is neither good nor bad. It just is. And it is the result of life happening. In my case, the in-between appeared because five months ago I became a widow.

My life seems divided now.  The life before I was a widow, and the life that has yet to reveal itself moving forward. I have a wish for that future life, a vision for that future life, but that life, whatever it turns out to be, is in the future.

Right now, I am in the in-between.

It occurred to me that the in-between may best be described as a waiting room. There are usually a couple of doors in a waiting room. A door by which one enters, and maybe another door by which one exits, and then often a couple of other doors leading to inner hallways and other rooms. If it’s a waiting room we haven’t ever been in before, we probably won’t have any accurate idea about what is beyond the inner doors including the rooms beyond.

So here I am. In the in-between. The waiting room of my current life. It’s a strange place, but not particularly uncomfortable. I have reluctantly come to accept that when I move out of the in-between towards the next part of my life is not entirely up to me. I can perhaps help chart the course, but unless I am the sole participant, then I’m not in control of the timing, or, frankly, the destination. And as I wrote the last sentence I started laughing, because even if I were the sole participant, control of one’s life is an illusion.

My decisions, my choices, in the in-between have become clear to me – a revelation Jinx’s words helped crystalize. Time is shorter than I would like; what people think about me doesn’t matter anymore; I have spent 71 years taking care of others, doing what is expected of me, being a “good girl” and meeting someone else’s expectations.

The in-between won’t last forever. I’ll be ready when it’s over. But for now, I rest.

Enough Is A Decision

Last Thursday night I was the featured author at the Transylvania County Arts Council Open Mic Night. It was an honor to be asked, and I thoroughly enjoyed speaking. However, the best part of the evening was listening to other writers from the audience present snippets of their own work. A poet, a 73-year-old writer reading from her debut novel, a retired Episcopal priest reading “What is a Real Priest?”, another writer sharing a painful and personal passage from a work-in-progress, and a retired physician who had lived in Honduras for ten years as a medical missionary.

As always, I was amazed at the different voices that creativity birthed in written form. Every writer is different, whether writing in the same genre as I do, or writing in genres that seem like foreign countries to me. And in Brevard, where the “majiks” meet and the ley lines cross, creativity seems to have taken form in every way imaginable – Writing, Music, Art, and not to be forgotten, Craft Breweries. I had no idea of the talent living in this town of less than 7500 people when I moved here 9 years ago.

But, back to last Thursday night.

The physician read from a memoir about her time in Honduras. She shared with us how she struggled with what to give away and what to keep when she left Boston for the tiny and impoverished Central American country, where her Honduran apartment was deemed luxurious because she had a closet. Enough, she wrote, is a decision, not an amount.

Enough is a decision, not an amount.

Seven small words cosseted amongst hundreds of others in the passage she read. Seven small words which have haunted me since I heard them three nights ago. Seven small words which I cannot remove from my mind.

Enough as a decision is a concept that had never occurred to me. Ever. And I’m not sure enough as a decision is how the majority of us envision the meaning of that word. Well, at least the majority of us who have been given the blessing of American abundance. Yes, poverty exists in the U.S. just as it does in Honduras, but not like it is there and in other impoverished lands.

All during my formative years, and certainly during my professional working years, there never was enough, even when there was excess, because in western culture enough is never enough – we strive for the fat bank account, the big house, the fancy car, the expensive vacations, the overflowing closet full of clothes. We are never told that enough is a decision, not an amount. It was then, and remains now for so many, an alien concept.

Believe me, I’m no saint. I’ve acquired, and acquired, and acquired with the best of them. But when those seven small words floated across the room last Thursday evening, they pierced my soul. I knew without a doubt that those seven words encapsulated truth in the smallest of packages. Seven small words that in an instant changed what I thought about “enough.” Seven small words that have changed how I think about my life.

Enough is a decision, not an amount.

Losing Too Many

This morning as I sipped on a cup of coffee in one of Brevard’s great local bakeries, listening to bluegrass performed by talented locals, I was interrupted by a “ting” from my phone. Glancing at the message I was shocked to read that my friend Jane was “at peace now in Heaven. She took her last breath around 8:20.” I could not believe what I was reading. I knew Jane had been sick, but I thought she was at home recovering. I had no idea that the end was near for her. My friend Jane was my age. That, my reader, was a shock of a different kind, and an unwelcome reminder of mortality.

The losses have begun in earnest. Two years ago, in the space of 6 months, I lost 8 friends. All from something other than Covid. They were older than I, but not by a whole lot. Recently I learned that 10 people I had known in college had passed away. This past year my husband died and so did two other people who I knew very well. And now, today, my friend Jane.

Death is on a rampage.

I guess when one reaches the 70 years, death becomes a more frequent visitor. Hopefully, we pray, not to us even as we watch Death claim our friends and we attend their funerals or celebrations of life. This is the cloak of mortality that clothes us all.

I do believe that my essence, my soul, is timeless and immortal. I believe I have had many lives before this one, and that I will have many more when this one is over. But right now, I really like the one I have. I’m in no hurry to shed the costume that is my body. I think about what Jane must be seeing. I thought the same about my husband when he passed. I know that one day it will be me seeing, and the ones I leave behind wondering as I do today.

Yes, Death is on a rampage. There is nothing I can do about it, either. I may be timeless, but I live in time and space. I don’t plan on wasting what is left.

Be Still

An essay found in my book “From There to Here and In Between”

In the past few months I have begun incorporating a 20 minute meditation into my day.  Thanks to technology like Apps for my Iphone, I have a meditation timer that brings me back to the day with the gentle sounds of birds singing.  No shrill Iphone alarm for me, just quiet, peaceful sounds of nature.

There are all sorts of ways that meditation practitioners center themselves and quiet their minds at the beginning of a meditation.  The method I use was suggested to me by a friend whose sister is a Buddhist.  I believe the words are actually Scriptural from the Christian Bible, which makes me smile thinking that a Buddhist uses the saying for meditation.

This is what I say to start:

Be Still and Know that I Am God

Then, I repeat the phrase, each time dropping the last word, until my last thought before beginning to recite my mantra is:

Be

The last couple of times I have meditated the thought has been impressed upon me that I should write about the larger meaning of the words in this short sentence.  This thought has been persistent, particularly as I drop deeper into the enclosure of the inner journey.  Today was no exception, so as soon as the birds recalled me to the present, I poured another cup of coffee and sat down to write this essay in the manner that was suggested to me in the meditations.

Be still and know that I am God - What is God? Who is God? Is he/she/it even a what or a who?  How can a human even wrap her head around such a concept?  I long ago laid aside the belief in an anthropomorphic divinity sitting on a throne in a celestial city with streets paved of gold.  This doesn’t mean that I don’t feel contact with a Higher Power, but that concept of the Undefinable simply seemed too limiting. When I see the pictures from Hubble, I know that Whatever created the Universe is beyond any words, terms or definitions man or woman can understand.

Be still and know that I Am - Whatever the Undefinable is, It is all encompassing.  And always has been.  It is present, existing, and consistent.

Be still and know that I - The big “I”.  This makes me believe in the intelligence of the Undefinable.  I also recognize that the sort of intelligence I am able to understand is likely at the single cell level.  No way can I truly comprehend the intelligence of the “Big I”.

Be still and know that - That.  What is “that”?  It is everything.  I will spend my entire life trying to discern the nature of all of “that”.  It is infinite and always expanding.

Be still and know - Be still enough to know, to learn, to recognize the revelation.  

Be still and - “and”.  There is always more.

Be still - No movement. No sound. Allowing my inner ears and eyes to see what my busy-ness hides from me.  Something very hard for me to do.

Be - Just be.  In the moment. In the present. Accepting whatever circumstances surround me.  Existing in my human form without expectation, need or desire.  A condition to be achieved.

I love the time I spend in meditation now.  Often I have great difficulty keeping errant thoughts to the side, but I remember that my current spiritual teacher says just to gently push those thoughts to the side and return my focus to the mantra and my breath.  To borrow from another path, It’s all about progress, not perfection.  It’s the days when I can simply “be” that keep me coming back for more.

The Dark Night of the Soul

As I contemplated the topic of this essay I at first thought the title would be “grief” for that is the emotion I feel most acutely now. But as I thought more and more about what I would write, the phrase “dark night of the soul” kept pushing its way into my consciousness. Perhaps the two are related – when grief is so profound that it interrupts one’s every waking hour, then is it so far a stretch to think our soul has fallen into that dark night where lessons are revealed and, painfully, learned?

I have journeyed into the dark night of the soul more than once in my life, so I know this is only a temporary journey. The precipitator for each previous journey has fallen into one or two categories – an emotional injury or pain, and a situation which is beyond my control.  Many times the two categories overlap. Sometimes they are indistinguishable. And while the present journey into the dark night of the soul has certainly been prompted by emotional pain and a situation beyond my control, this time there is an overlay of grief.

It took me a while to figure out the grief part. I thought I was just depressed over the current circumstances of my life. But no, this is not depression. This is a grieving for a life that I wish I had not chosen, and a grieving of the knowledge that the consequences of choices made decades ago may preclude me from living an authentic life for the years remaining to me.

Regretting the past is deadly, for none of us can change it. As much as I might wish this to be possible, I can’t go back in time and change what I chose all those years ago. I didn’t have the self-knowledge at 30 that I now have at 70. I understand why that young woman made those choices. I just wish she had made different ones.

I know there is light on the other side. Light, peace made, and hope restored. But the journey itself is just fucking awful. And I am right in the middle of it.

One day at a time…

Dementia

My husband has dementia.

It’s a shitty disease with no cure. The only absolute is that it will progress until nothing is left of the person but a physical shell. But here’s a fact about dementia that many don’t know. Until the disease reaches the “severe” stage, many sufferers present fairly normally, especially those who remain “high functioning” socially. It is only in the home environment where the true decline is seen and experienced by the 24/7 caregiver.

And it is the “high functioning socially” aspect of the disease that makes the present so difficult. My husband can pull off pretty much anything in a limited social setting. He can converse intelligently. He may have a short lapse in conversation, but for those of us of a certain age, who doesn’t every now and then? He’s aware of current politics, of science, of most of what is going on. The true ravages of his moderate-stage dementia are easily concealed when it’s only for a few hours.

I’m sure (am I really?) that people mean well when they say “there’s nothing wrong with him. He seems just fine.” But these people only see a small window of time. They are not living the 24/7 life with us. They don’t know the reality of our lives, a reality that I am not going to write about in excruciating detail because it is too personal and painful.

When a person is suffering from a physical disease – cancer is an example - no one argues with the FACT of the disease. No one denies the reality that the cancer patient and his or her family are living. No one ignores the medical evidence. No one tells the caregiver or the patient that they don’t have the disease or they aren’t taking the right treatment or they aren’t making the right long term care plans. No, most people keep their mouths SHUT even if they have a different opinion.

That courtesy has not been extended to me or my husband by several people who should know better. And that infuriates me, because as the 24/7 caregiver the last thing I need on my plate is some judgmental, self-righteous platitude disguised as concern, or worse, denial.

I am angry. I’m angry at this disease which is afflicting my husband. I’m angry at all the ways this disease is affecting our life. I’m angry at people who refuse to accept what is happening to my husband, who act poorly in response and who infer that I am exaggerating about the reality of my husband’s condition and our life. I’m angry that there is really nothing that my husband and I can do about what is happening to him and to us. I’m angry that this disease is making our life smaller and smaller.

So, why am I writing this essay? Well, I suppose partly it’s to put voice to emotions, for by speaking and naming what is eating at us, we somehow diminish its effect on us. More importantly, perhaps, is to bring some sort of awareness to people about dementia and how it progresses. It’s only at the very end stages that the personality has fled, leaving behind what most of us envision as a “demented person.” The journey is, unfortunately, death by a thousand little cuts. Just because you don’t “see” the decline, it doesn’t mean it’s not there. It’s there alright, and it’s affecting the lives of the caregiver and sufferer 24/7 without any respite.

It’s a shitty, cruel disease.

Waiting

As I sat down to write this essay a big sigh escaped my lips. Could I even do this? Write anything at all? The mere effort of beginning felt enormous, onerous, heavy, impossible. Where once the words spilled effortlessly onto the paper, now they seem lost. Are they hiding from me or have I lost the ability to call them forth?

I’ve had bouts in the past where starting a book or an essay is difficult, but this is different. Before, I wanted to write, and eventually the words revealed themselves. But this time the desire to write – the basic core desire that has always been a part of me – that desire has, like Elvis, left the building.

Why is that?

The last substantial writing I produced was comprised of two essays – “The Caged Bird” and “The Heavy Coat”. Actually, there was a third, “When the Muse Won’t Come,” but “The Caged Bird” and “The Heavy Coat” were authentic cries from my Soul.  It should, therefore, be no surprise that I find myself presently in an emotional and creative desert.

I am waiting. I am waiting for events over which I have no control to unfold in my life. These events, which will come as surely as night follows day, will happen. I just don’t know how or when. And when these events over which I have no control happen, my life will be changed forever.

I’m not fearful of the change. I am prepared as best I can be for events over which I have no control, and which primarily affect another person. But the unknowing aspect is, I think, what has paralyzed my ability to write. That and the feeling of being powerless and trapped.

And waiting.

When the Muse Won't Come

Okay, you’re waiting for the joke  - if the Muse won’t come how is it that I am writing an essay and you are reading it? It’s an enigma. An oxymoron. A mystery to be solved. A “WTF” are you talking about? Complaining about? Whining about?

I’ve been here before you know, when the Muse is silent, when he – yes, my Muse presents as a man and I have named him “Richard” – when he is stubbornly silent no matter how much I entreat him otherwise. When I yearn to hear the voices of my various characters in the mystery series I write, when I need the excitement and exhilaration that pours through my body as I sit at my laptop and the words spill onto the page.

When I need an escape from the reality of life.

The reality of life.  Four words that I would like to strangle. Four words that require me to be present, to accept what I can’t change, to – sometimes – just grit my teeth and bear it. I fucking hate the reality of life right now.

The Buddha said “Life is difficult.” He said that our pain comes from “attachment,” and if we are able to relinquish that to which we are attached, our lives will not be difficult, or at least not as difficult. Personally, I think a pain-free life is impossible, but I’m willing to believe that there are ways to minimize the unavoidable.

Is it attachment that is keeping my Muse away? And if so, to what am I attached? Perhaps I am attached to the need to know the future, to predict the outcome, to control the uncontrollable. Perhaps I am attached to being sad and depressed over the reality of my current life. I do try to put on happiness, to replace what seems more and more to be an ever-present sadness. Some days it is easier to do that than others. Some days the tears are barely kept at bay.

And I know as I sit here writing this essay, that while Richard may still be on a walk-about, there is a Muse sitting with me now. This Muse is female, and she understands the pain of one’s heart and soul much better than her male counterpart. It is she who is helping me reach deep inside to write these words, to look at the attachments, to release the anguish, to accept the reality of life. She hasn’t told me her name, but I can feel her gentle spirit and I can see her in my mind’s eye. She will help me find my way back, and when the time is right, she will call to Richard and tell him it’s time to get back to work.

The Caged Bird

Her wings were clipped long ago. Her song shushed until she forgot how to sing. Blue skies and gentle breezes replaced by bars. Oh, she could see beyond her cage, but she was never able to do more than look, wish and hope. And for a very long time, she didn’t even have hope.

Her keeper wasn’t cruel. He met her basic needs of food and water. Sometimes he placed bright, shiny objects in her cage. She could barely remember another life, a life without bars, a life of freedom. Sometimes on the edge of sleep a distant memory would arise, amorphous and disintegrating, fading into the ether before she could grasp its meaning.  

The years passed.

In the fall of her life a shift occurred. Although her cage had been placed beside a window for most of her captivity, she had never paid much attention to what went on outside the large wall of glass. Why would she have? Her keeper had trained her well. Her life, her protected life, her fed life – that life was in her tiny cage behind those bars. If she didn’t have her keeper to take care of her, what would happen?

One day, for a reason unknown, she decided to peck at the clasp which held the door to her cage closed. To her great surprise, the clasp moved, and the door swung open. Timidly, she perched on the rim of the open door. Deep inside a voice whispered, “You can do this.” But she was afraid.

Her keeper appeared. “What a naughty girl you are” he admonished as he latched the open door. Chastened, she withdrew to the center of her cage.

Many days passed before she tried again, but that inner voice, the voice of those memories, compelled her forward. She began to exercise her wings, to move them about, and discovered that they hadn’t really been clipped. It was the years of confinement that had convinced her otherwise. Then she began to sing. Not much at first, but more and more as she gained confidence in herself.

She began to change, and on a beautiful summer day she freed herself and flew away.

The Heavy Coat

It weighs on me, the heavy coat I can’t seem to shed.

It’s invisible, you know. Unseen by the naked eye, by the stranger I pass in the grocery store, by my neighbor who waves at me as I stop to check my mailbox, by anyone who sees me no matter where I may be.

I’ve worn lots of visible coats in my lifetime. Some to stay warm, some to look cool, some by habit. Some heavier than others – furs are both heavy and warm, and also beautiful – but none can hold a candle to the all-pervasive, ever-present, weight of the invisible one.

This invisible yet horrendously heavy coat is like Tinker Bell’s shadow. It’s attached to me. I go to sleep hoping it will somehow slip off during the night, but no. That never happens. If I am awakened in the night, in a matter of a mere split-second I realize the coat is still wrapped around my entire body. It’s a frigging maxi-coat, even though those went out of style in the 70’s. When I wake in the morning, the weight of its suffocating presence reminds me of its existence before my feet it the floor. There is no escape.

Recently I was able to shed the coat, albeit very briefly. In all honesty, I couldn’t shed it completely, but I had both arms out, it was off my shoulders, and for most of those fleeting days it was merely an attached shadow. So, while I was not able to fully discard the coat, I was able to leave it locked up in a hotel closet for three and a half 24-hour periods.

I hate this heavy coat. I hate why it clings to me. I fight not to hate the person whose circumstances have placed the coat on my body. I hate the fact that I am compelled to be honorable. I want to be free of the coat, to send it to the Goodwill bin, to pawn it off on someone else, to let someone else assume its weight. But I know that is not going to happen. At least not today.

St. Valentine

Today is Valentine’s Day, that 24 hour period where lovers are celebrated, candy makers and jewelers make a fortune, and for those of us in a relationship, a day where we try to figure out what sort of gift is appropriate for our significant other. 

Gifting on Valentine’s Day can be a serious challenge.  For the person early in a relationship, the question is “gift or card, or both?”  And, if the decision is to buy a gift, question two becomes what sort of gift?  Men and women have tortured themselves over this small but sometimes crucial decision, because the nature of the gift often symbolically conveys more than what the giver has ever been able to express in words.  There are so many unspoken rules relative to the appropriateness of the gift to be given, particularly for the newly in love.  Giving too intimate a gift too early in the relationship can be as poorly received as giving one deemed too casual.  What is a young, or old for that matter, lover to do?

For those of us who have survived in long term relationships, Valentine’s Day is sometimes more obligation than romantic interlude.  We buy our significant other a funny card, or a mushy one, and feel we have done our duty.  Flowers rarely make an appearance anymore.  Infrequently we may dine out, but more often than not, we make the minimal effort necessary to recognize the day and our partner, motivated to avoid conflict rather than to celebrate affection.  Sort of sad, really.

In reflecting on Valentine’s Day, I thought I might actually read about the day’s namesake, Saint Valentine to see whence came this holiday.  Frankly, reading about Saint Valentine is more depressing than standing on my bathroom scales, and that is saying a lot.  Saint Valentine, whose feast day truly is February 14, was a Roman priest who was martyred during the reign of Claudius II.  Valentine’s crime was conducting marriage ceremonies for Christians.  After Valentine was arrested and imprisoned Claudius took a liking to him, but eventually Valentine was condemned to death after trying to convert Claudius to Christianity.  Valentine was hard to kill, too.  When clubbing and stoning failed to produce the desired result, Claudius ordered Valentine beheaded.  All of this happened around 270 A.D.  

At first glance, it’s hard to make the connection between being beheaded in 270 A.D. for conducting marriage ceremonies and the holiday that today bears the martyr’s name, but when you set aside all the hoolah that surrounds Valentine gifting today and really look at why the day’s namesake lost his head, the answer is simple.  Valentine literally lost his head for love - for recognizing and sanctifying the love of two people for each other.  

From Saint Valentine’s perspective, Valentine’s Day is a day to celebrate those we love and those who love us.  A day to remind us of love’s sacrifice, as well as love’s gifts.  I rather like thinking of Valentine’s Day from that perspective.  

A nice article in the Transylvania Times

Transylvanian of the Week: Adair Sanders | Features | transylvaniatimes.com

The Fifteen-Year Conundrum

When I was growing up, and even into my mid-life years, I never did understand why my mother read the obituaries so religiously. I’m fairly certain she read the obits before she read any other section of the paper. Creepy, I thought, and really, really, dark. Why would anyone be so interested in who had died?

Well, I certainly understand “why” now.

In the past 18 months, my friends have been dropping like the proverbial fly. Covid, you presume, but you would be wrong. All from cancer, and all in their 70’s. The most recent departee passed on just a couple of weeks ago – she would have turned 78 a few days after her funeral. Then, there’s been the “rockers” of my youth: David Crosby and Jeff Beck, not to mention Anita Pointer and a year ago Meatloaf.  I keep waiting for Keith Richards to kick the can, but I think he may have made a deal with a supernatural entity.

At any rate, I don’t have to look at the obituaries to know what’s happening. I am getting freaking old.

Okay, 70 isn’t that old. I’ve been told 70 is the new 50, but I think that’s stretching it a bit. Still, I’m healthy, so far as I know, I’m in good physical shape, mostly, and I have a great BMI number. So what’s there to worry about?

Answer: The fifteen-year conundrum. Or, put another way, time is running out.

I want to think I’ve got at least fifteen or twenty years ahead of me, but the average life expectancy now for a woman in this country is 81. SHIT!! 81!!! That’s only eleven years! The good news, if there is any, is that because I’ve made it to the age of 70, I get an additional 5.54 years. Whoopee! 86.54.

So, I ask myself, “What are you going to do with however many years you may have left?”

I’ve spent most of my adult years dancing to someone else’s tune, acquiescing to someone else’s demands, instructions, or objections, believing that I was “less than” and incapable of handling the important decisions of life. When those are the messages imprinted from childhood, and reinforced by the significant men in one’s life, it’s a hard pattern to break.

 But break it I have. Finally.

So, what am I going to do about the fifteen-year conundrum you ask? I’m going to live my life, an authentic life, an honest life, a caring life, not placing my needs ahead of duty or commitment, but recognizing that my needs are just as important as anyone else’s. I want to do the best I can to enjoy whatever days my Higher Power sees fit to place before me. The secret will be staying in the present, living one day at a time, and not counting off the days that some statistician has decided I’ll have before the undertaker is called. Who knows? I may fool all of them and end up in the Guinness Book of World Records as the oldest living woman in the world. Well, probably not, but I bet I can have a great time trying.

Canyon Cathedrals

Through a miracle, I have recovered around 25 essays that I thought had been permanently lost several years ago when I changed hosting services to the current one. Imagine my thrill at finding them on Google Drive the other day. So, I have decided to repost some of them. This one, Canyon Cathedrals, was written after a fabulous trip out west probably around 2012. I hope you enjoy it:

Canyon Cathedrals

I spent the last week hiking in three of our country’s western national parks as part of a Road Scholar tour.  The trip was a first for me in many ways.  To begin with, I am not a hiker and so was a little leery of what would physically be required of me.  I prepared by purchasing a great pair of hiking boots and eight pairs of soft hiking socks, a backpack with multiple compartments, and a fanny pack with a heavy duty water bottle.  The boots were perfect, the fanny pack a joke, and the backpack turned out to be one of my better traveling purchases since I was able to carry my rain gear, an extra fleece, chapstick, sunscreen and the necessary water bottle much more easily on my back rather than around my waist in that weeny fanny pack.  And, although we did go on some strenuous hikes, I was able to handle both the topography and the altitude much better than I had feared. 

Secondly, this was my first Road Scholar tour, and I had no idea what to expect, particularly of an organization that until recently went by the name  “Elderhostel” - a moniker that brought to mind visions of aging hippies in earth shoes and tie dye.  What a pleasant surprise to discover a variety of interesting people ranging from age 49 to 83.  I came home with two new Facebook friends and lots of email addresses. 

My biggest concern though was that I didn’t particularly want to go on the trip.  I had agreed to go because my husband really wanted to see the three parks on the tour - Bryce, Zion and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon - but all I could envision was dry, treeless, boring geography.  Boy was I wrong!

Zion National Park.  What can I possibly write that can describe the beauty of God’s creation there?  On the first day we hiked along the bottom of a lush green canyon following the meandering Virgin River until the canyon walls were so close that a stone could easily be tossed from one side to the other, with the river passing through at a place aptly named “The Narrows”.  Instead of walking in a dry desert I felt I was walking in a rain forest - trees overhanging the path, ferns and other plants growing out of the sheer rock while water trickled down from above.  Later that afternoon we hiked to the Emerald Pools, ponds colored green by algae and fed from waterfalls spilling out of the canyon walls.   As we left Zion we ascended from the canyon floor passing tall, beautiful rock formations ranging in color from red, brown, pink to white, and traveling through a one mile tunnel cut through solid rock.  I hated to leave.

Like most of us, I had seen many pictures of the Grand Canyon, but I was totally unprepared for what awaited me.  The most startling surprise was how green and treed the North Rim side of the park is.  We drove through acres and acres of spruce and other “Christmas tree” conifers.  Dry and barren it was not!  The trees at the North Rim are everywhere, even right up to the edge of the canyon.  But the most awe-inspiring experience was the canyon itself, the magnificence of which cannot be adequately conveyed in pictures or words.  Even standing there in person, I was unable to completely assimilate the unworldly grandeur in front of me.  What must the first humans have thought when they encountered the Grand Canyon?  Surely that only a Power greater than man could have created that splendor.

I ended my week in Bryce Canyon, and a fitting end it was, for Bryce is truly one of God’s Canyon Cathedrals.  Bryce is full of astonishing columnar rock formations known as “hoodoos”.  It takes hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years to form hoodoos, and once formed they don’t last that long in geological terms but plenty long in people time.  Our first day in Bryce we hiked the Queen’s Trail to the bottom of the canyon, a three-mile round trip at 9100 feet elevation that taxed my reserves to the max.  I sounded like the big bad wolf of three little pigs’ fame by the time I returned to the top, huffing and puffing trying to suck in all the oxygen I could get!  But, what a hike and so worth it.  The sight of the hoodoos stretching towards the deep blue cloudless sky will remain in my mind for a long, long time.

I live in the North Carolina mountains, and I always tell people that I find my Higher Power here in the dark forested Appalachians, formed many millennia before the western mountains and canyons I recently visited.  But, my trip to Zion, the North Rim and Bryce reminded me that my Higher Power can be found there as well because anywhere we see the grandeur and magnificence of creation, we find the Creator. I am so glad that I made this trip.

At The Beauty Parlor

I heard this phrase today during a conversation with a friend and immediately thought “that’s a great title for an essay!” So, having finished a very light dinner, and now enjoying a cup of decaf topped with Redi-Whip (my idea of a low-calorie dessert), I’ve settled in front of my “writing” laptop waiting for inspiration. However, since my Muse, Richard, presents as a man, there’s no telling what kind of inspiration he will send my way.

The phrase “at the beauty parlor” is reminiscent, at least to me, of years bygone. Years when my grandmother and then my mother went to the beauty parlor once a week, every week, for their entire adult lives. I Imagine that this female routine happened in cities all over our country, but I don’t know, never having lived above the Mason-Dixon line except for a very short stent in the nation’s capital. In the South of my upbringing, that weekly jaunt to the beauty parlor was right up there in importance with going to church on Sundays.  

And here is an example of just how important the beauty parlor was to women of a certain generation.

When my mother was in her late 60’s she experienced symptoms of a mild stroke. This happened the morning of her weekly hair appointment. Did she call my father or 911? Of course not! Instead, she went to the beauty parlor, and then still not feeling all that great, ended up at her doctor’s office several hours later. Fortunately for my mother, her vanity delay didn’t result in any harm, but had she expired at the beauty parlor she would at least have entered the pearly gates with clean hair and a new do. I liken her experience to the mantra she instilled in me as a young girl – “always wear good underwear, because you never know when you might end up in the emergency room.” Nice undies and perfect hair – what else could be more important?

By the time I became an adult – at least chronologically – going to the beauty parlor every week, or even on any sort of regular basis, was passe’. Other than one time in my late 20’s when I got some sort of beauty wave treatment resulting in my hair looking like I had stuck my hand in a light socket, I didn’t darken the door of a beauty parlor for a couple of decades for anything other than a haircut.

Competing in a man’s world my entire professional life, a world which was, and probably still is, unkind to aging women, I found myself in my 40’s re-entering the world of the beauty parlor, now known by the more chic name of salon, in order to have my hair professionally colored. No gray hair for me, even after I left the business world.

And then along came Covid and closed every salon in the country (except for the one where Nancy Pelosi went). I mustn’t complain about favoritism, though, because Covid was a blessing for my hair. Or maybe I simply returned to my “roots”, no pun intended, remembering those hippie days of the late 60’s and early 70’s. I ditched the color, ditched the salon, and embraced long, silver hair. Yay me!

I will admit to switching my allegiances to a different sort of salon these days. Facials and pedicures have become habit-forming, providing a monthly respite and time for pampering and relaxation.  Hopefully, if I ever feel some sort of medical event coming on I’ll have more sense than my mother and get my you-know-what to the nearest hospital.

In looking over what I’ve written, it’s clear Richard decided he didn’t want any part of talking about beauty parlors or salons. Smart man. If I ever decide to write about a barber shop, I’m sure he’ll lend his two-cents worth. But for this evening’s musings, all I needed was a good memory.

The picture I have posted along with this essay is of my mother, about the time she punted the ER for the beauty parlor. She looked “put together” until the day she died. She was, after all, a Southern lady.

Wanting

I have every material possession I can possibly ever need or use. Oh, I see “pretties” here and there that I consider adding to my already overflowing amount of “stuff”, but most of the time I am able to restrain myself and leave them for someone else to carry home. For those material “pretties,” “wanting” is mostly habit. I like pretty things, always have, always will.

Every now and then the very best of my intentions are an insufficient deterrence; I break down and buy something that is truly and completely totally unneeded. In retrospect, sometimes as soon as I bring the “pretty” home with me, I find myself asking if I really wanted what I’ve bought, for 99.9% of the time I know I don’t need what’s sitting on my kitchen counter.

The “wanting” that I am thinking about today though has nothing to do with material possessions. This type of “wanting” requires clairvoyance, deep intuition, acceptance and tons of patience. Above all this type of “wanting” requires knowledge, knowledge that I don’t have, knowledge that I desperately want.  

In times past, I used to want God/the Source/the Great Consciousness/or Whatever Name fits to post the answer to my wanting on the nearest billboard so I could see it on the way to work. Times have changed, and I figure the Divine has as well, so He/She/It can just text the answer to my smart phone.

If only it worked that way.

I want to know the future of relationships; the future of lives; the future of things so close to my heart that they must remain unnamed. In short, I want to know the answer to events that have yet to be determined, events which must unfold on their own time, events that require the participation of other people, events which may require the intervention of the Divine.

I hate having to wait on the answer.

The Truth of the Lie

“The extent of the fear of the Truth is the truth of the extent of the lie.”

What does the “extent of the Lie” mean?

How much ground does that Lie cover? How many people has it reached and convinced of its veracity? Is it just a few or many? Is it a recent Lie or one of long endurance? How important is the Lie to the person’s life? Is the Lie necessary to support the person’s outward story? Is the Lie a necessary component of the person’s public persona?

The more important the Lie, the harder it will be to discover the truth of that Lie.

Why are we so afraid of the Truth?

People often fear the Truth, but particularly so when the Lie has set up shop in the entirety of a person’s life. If the Truth of the Lie is uncovered, the person fears that the Truth will expose him or her to scorn, derision, and all other sorts of negative emotions from those to whom the Lie has been told over the preceding days, months, or years. The Truth of the Lie will strip the person of his or her carefully created disguise, leaving the person standing in his or her emotional nakedness for the world to see. And judge.

That is when the fear of the Truth most often prevents us from looking at, and accepting, the truth of the Lie.

Scott Peck wrote a book about the People of Lie. People who concocted, nurtured, and promoted a Lie about themselves or their lives – with reckless disregard of the damage done to others – for the sole purpose of serving Self.

I have known one of these people.

When we are fearful of examining the Truth of the Lie, or Lies, we have created, we would be advised to consider the consequences of staying in the status quo, no matter how comfortable or necessary the Lie may feel.

Living the Lie kills. Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. But it will always kill.

A Perfect Love

“Why waste time looking for the perfect lover when you can instead be creating the perfect love?”

I’m not sure the perfect lover exists. Certainly at the beginning of a relationship the pheromones and hormones are raging. The lovers think the ecstasy will never end. Desire and lust, those two emotions that can dictate and ruin a life, run rampant and uncontrolled in those early days. “This will last forever” they foolishly think, while unbeknownst to them, the house they are building has its foundation on the shifting sands of sexual attraction, and nothing else.

If all they have is sex, the relationship is doomed to failure.

Is there a perfect love? The odds of finding or creating the perfect love are much better than the odds of finding the perfect – and lasting – lover. The perfect love is based on so much more than physical desire. The perfect love ties the lovers to each other emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Perfect love supports, nurtures, encourages. Perfect love is creative, not restrictive. Perfect love is unselfish but at the same time self-loving. Perfect love can also create the perfect lover, but only in the correct order.

Why do so many of us fail to understand the difference between the perfect lover and the perfect love? I can’t answer that question.  What I do know, however, is that perfect love must be created and birthed first, and if this is done carefully, slowly and intentionally, the perfect lover will simply be a part of a whole, wonderful, fulfilling and soul-enhancing miracle of perfect love.