Begin Again With A Word

My last post was in July of last year. I wrote about anxiety and indecision, which followed me through the rest of the year and into 2025. I would think I had a handle on things; and then something would feed my self-doubt, my stomach would roil, and I'd be stalled again. Things fell apart in December. I have notes in my day planner about my goal to keep moving and look for the positive. 

I had so much to celebrate with my sons and daughters-in-law and grandchildren over the holidays. They love to have us visit, and we have fun together. I had hope for the new year.

I had a physical in January and passed with flying colors. The problem was that I couldn't stop crying. I was bereft and wasn't able to overcome the sadness. I asked for the name of a counselor to help me get out of the valley I was in. I went three times, and by the third time I could get through the hour without crying. 

I had kept moving and it was time to move on.

I chose my word early in the year in the midst of this emotional time, and it repeatedly came to mind: enough. 

I am enough. Enough is enough. Enough, enough, enough. Again and again I could shut down my negative thoughts with that single word. Over time I felt better for longer periods of time. I remind myself that I can only control my own thoughts and actions, and I have no control over what other people say or do.

So this post marks the start to my 18th year of blogging. The more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm still here. Life still surprises me. 

The journey continues....

Still Here

My word for last year was "begin." My goal was to give myself permission to start things even if I wasn't sure of what the result would be or where I would wind up. It worked. Many things are still in process; that's okay because I got started.

In October I challenged myself to begin to seriously look back at regrets, disappointments, mistakes, and goals not met. My goal was to change my thinking. For longer than I care to admit I have looked back to review what I did that brought me to where I am, sometimes at what worked and more often what didn't. Honestly, I was tired of that routine. It was time to change what I had always done. 

I was pushed to dig deep because my mom would have been 88 years old last October. She was 20 when I was born, and I was dreading my next birthday: I didn't want to be caught in a decades-old pattern of looking back with regret at things I couldn't change. I did what I did and each decision led me to where I wound up. I love my kids and grandkids and wouldn't trade them for anything in the world. I want to feel differently about myself. I want to go forward in a different way.

Every time a thought about the past came up, I examined it until I was tired of thinking about it. I looked at what I did, why, what had led to the decision, what the result was, and what came after. I exhausted all the should-have's, could-have's, what-if's, and why-didn't-I's. I didn't deny any thought; when anything came up, I followed the chain of what happened before and what came after. Every single time. 

Eventually thoughts would occur to me and pass through quickly. I had already looked at every angle and accepted that what happened...happened. 

I didn't know how long the process would take but was determined to stay with the challenge until I could move on. It was getting easier.

Then on January 31 I read the following in Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening:

"Dropping all we carry - all our preconceptions, our interior lists of the ways we've failed and the ways we've been wronged, all the secret burdens we work at maintaining - dropping all regret and expectation lets our mentality die. Dropping all we have constructed as imperative allows us to be born again into the simplicity of spirit that arises from unencumbered being."

Begin. Things will change. It is worth the effort.

The journey continues.... 

Summer Wrap-Up

Last week we had our first days of fall-like weather. Tuesday started off with clear skies and cool temperatures, and by noon it was pleasantly warm. Then clouds moved in with showers by late afternoon. This summer was one of the wettest summers anyone can remember. Two-thirds of the days in June brought rain and better than a dozen days in each of July and August. 

Luckily it did not rain the last weekend in August. That was the time my family decided in May that we would get together to celebrate my mom, their Grandma Ellie. I had some ideas about how the weekend would go but knew I needed to stay flexible. With my sons and their families and my daughter with her daughter, we had four kids ages two to nine and seven adults to consider. We were all in and out on Saturday and together for dinner, where I proposed a toast to my mom and remembered how fond she was of my kids and their families. 

The weather cooperated both days. Sunday we had tickets to a Portland Sea Dogs game, the minor league farm team for the Red Sox, and an event that my mom would have enjoyed as much as we did. The seats were perfect, and there was enough action and food to keep the kids happy. We didn't realize it was a double header until the end of the first game, so we had twice the fun. The day closed out with dinner at Applebee's, where I commented that my mom would have enjoyed the day and I thought there was a good chance she had a hand in how well everything worked out. 

It was the perfect way to wrap up the summer. 

June had been a time to work through so many thoughts and feelings I'd had over the past year, putting words to my grief and frustration so I could see it all in one place. For me, writing is a way to make sense of what I don't understand or connect what appears to be unrelated.

In July I was ready to create an album of the photos my mom had collected since she was a girl. I made new pages for an album she had and cross-referenced photos so each one was labeled and dated. The process of finally getting the photos mounted had been months in the making and felt like such an accomplishment. It was a way to bring together the people and events in her life that made her happy, that she wanted to remember. 

In the process of putting all the pieces together I had time to think about how my relationship with my mom had changed over the years. Neither one of us gave up on trying to understand the other. It wasn't always easy and there were times that we knew the other was frustrated and unable to see a different perspective. I realized that we had come to forgive each other for the hurt we felt, the misunderstandings and disagreements. We didn't ignore the past, but we were able to see that it was the past and we couldn't change it. 

In my Mothers Day card to my mom just days before she fell and was hospitalized, I wrote:

We stand where we are/ Because our steps brought us here/ Thank you for walking the way with me. 

I have that card now and am grateful that I had the chance to share what I felt. In recognizing the growth in the relationship with my mom, I have had time to think about the things in my own life that I wish had been different, decisions and choices that I would make differently now. Then I applied the meaning of forgiveness to my own life, giving up the hope that the past could have been any different.

With that, in July of this summer, I forgave myself. And like I've heard so many times, when the student is ready the teacher appears. For me, in so many ways....   

On July 31 I read a quote by Alden Howlan that someone posted on Instagram:

"The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise."

The journey continues....

The Final Day

One year ago today the day started just after midnight when my sister and I got back to the hotel. My brother's son and his wife had arrived; they had called ahead to reserve a room and had driven the four hours from home after work. My brother had been in touch with his youngest son, much like I kept in touch with my kids, with daily texts and phone calls. We said our hellos and enjoyed light conversation for a bit; then my sister and I needed to get to bed. She had been up more than 24 hours and I had plans to officially start the day at 6 a.m.

Before I left the hospital late the night of June 7th I stopped at the nurse's station to ask if I could come before visiting hours the next morning. I was given permission and the same nurses would be on duty the next morning to answer the call from the visitor desk. I knew that the day would be busy with making arrangements for what came next for my mom. She was only allowed two visitors at a time so we would play change-the-nametag game throughout the day. I wanted a chance to talk to my mom alone in the calm of early morning, and I didn't know if I would get another chance.

When I arrived at 7 a.m. the parking lot was nearly empty at the large university hospital. The front desk called up to the SICU and I was given a name tag and permission to go upstairs. It was a relief to see my mom awake and looking like herself. She was still on oxygen and pain meds, but the other machines had been removed. I told her that her grandson had arrived with his wife and they would be over to visit. She smiled. We talked about my kids and grandkids, and she said that all her children and our families were her legacy. I reminded her that I had talked to my younger brother the night before and that he was on his way. Throughout the day she said more than once, "You know I love him." We all knew she loved all of us, but it was good to have her say it out loud about my brother who hadn't talked to our mom in months and hadn't yet arrived. Her mind was as sharp as ever. She talked about things that happened when she was a child, how much she loved her grandmother and aunt who took care of her after her mother died, and how she always felt loved and taken care of. My mom had regrets about how much responsibility fell to me as the oldest child; we talked about how hard life was in our household and how we survived. She was proud of the four of us, the lives we had made for ourselves, and the people we had made a part of our lives. It was one of the best conversations I had ever had with my mom.

Then it was visiting hours. I got the call to come downstairs so two others could come upstairs. I told Mom I would see her a bit later and the nametag rotation began. It gave me a chance to sit outside and catch up with my nephew and his wife. I told them how much it meant that they came. The suspicion I had about their trip was accurate: yes, they wanted to see Grandma Ellie, and they also wanted to check on my brother. They knew he was taking all of this very hard. It was important they were present to support him.

Around 11:00 we got word that Dr. Navia and  his team were prepared to meet with Mom and then with my brother, sister, and me. It had been cleared that the three of us could be on the floor at the same time to meet in the waiting room. It was a very difficult meeting, especially for my sister. She had been in town for only 12 hours and she was hearing that our mom was ready to die. My brother and I had been witness to what Mom endured and how hard she tried to keep going. She couldn't do that any longer and she was ready to let go. We were each asked to voice our support for our mom's decision to enter hospice care. Then the Support Team went into action to have her moved to the hospice floor.

The day before my mom, my brother, and I had met with a social worker to go through the assignment of my brother as Mom's representative if she was unable to make health care decisions for herself. I was designated to step in if necessary. It was never necessary to have anyone but my mom make decisions.

The other thing the social worker was able to accomplish the day before was to track down the paperwork my mom had signed several years before to have her body donated to the medical school at WVU, on the very campus where she was hospitalized. She and the man she married in 2003 had set that up; Charlie, who died four years earlier, was from West Virginia and they both liked the idea of being of use in the training of medical students. The problem had been that my mom's wallet with the donor card had been lost between the ambulance ride to her local hospital and the trip to Morgantown. My brother had tried unsuccessfully to talk to the right person to find the document on file; the social worker was able to straighten that situation out with one phone call. 

After the meeting with the Support Team, I went to get lunch, and my brother and sister went to be with my mom. She was moved to the hospice floor in the early afternoon, to a small room at the end of the hall. She was on oxygen and a small dose of morphine. That was all. There was not a light to be seen or a beep to be heard.

I went into the hall to call my younger brother with an update. I had not heard from him since he told me he was coming. There was a storm headed across the state and we didn't know how that would impact travel. I left a message.

Mom was settled in and resting. I called people to let them know. I left my number on the board in her room so the nurse could call if anything changed. I could call the nurses' station any time.

My sister and I were staying in town. In the evening my brother headed across the mountain to try to beat the storm, and my nephew headed home as well. We would stay in touch.

Later that night the storm hit with full force - thunder, lightening, wind, heavy rain, hail, and tornadoes. We learned the next day that there was a swath of damage and power outages across the state. 

At 11:40 my brother texted that he had made it home despite the terrible weather. Shortly after there was a tremendous flash of lightening out our hotel window, and the cable went out. My sister and I looked at each other in awe at the sight of the storm outside. 

I am convinced that that was the moment that my mom passed. I love the image of her riding out on a lightening bolt. She "knew" that my brother was home safe and it was okay to go.

My phone rang at 4:30 a.m. It was the charge nurse with news that my mother had died. She had called my brother but he didn't answer. It was not the kind of news you leave in a voicemail. She was delayed in calling because there were downed trees blocking her route to work. They were calling the time of death just after midnight because that was when Mom was found to be unresponsive. However, I count June 8 as her final day.

Then I called my brother. We would talk later in the light of day.

Decisions

 I am not a morning person. I never have been. People told me when I had kids that would change. It didn't. They are night owls too, not early birds.

I do wake up early if I need to or if there is a lot going on, and my days in West Virginia fit that description. I was constrained by the hospital's visiting hours as to when I could arrive, but the morning of June 7 I called the nurse's station at 6. I wanted to know how my mom's night was and if they had yet set a time for the meeting with the Support Team. One of Mom's favorite nurses was on duty and said she had  a restless night; the Support Team would be called once we arrived and come to the SICU for the meeting.

We were all on pins and needles. We didn't know what to expect. My brother and I thankfully were able to get through the visitors' line and to the room shortly after 8. We reassured our mom that she was heard and the process was moving forward. On rounds the doctor in charge for the week talked as if meds and treatments would continue as they had been. I know the doctors are busy and have many patients, but was there no communication about all that happened after rounds the day before? My mom had to tell her that we were meeting with the Support Team. Confusion. Lack of communication. And we didn't know the extent of it yet.

The waiting was hard. My brother and I were tired and anxious, yet we remained calm and supportive for Mom. My sister wouldn't arrive until late that night; she was already in transit for her 22-hour trip. She knew what was planned for the day but she wouldn't get an update until she arrived in WV.  

Two hours after we arrived at the hospital the Support Team came to the room to talk with my mom. While my brother and I were waiting in a quiet corner outside the room, his phone rang. It was the orthopedic surgeon calling to discuss the details of the surgery scheduled for the next day to deal with the infection in Mom's hip. He was on speaker phone and in unison my brother and I said, "No. The Support Team is meeting with her now. There will be no more surgeries." I was incredulous. 

There apparently was no communication among the specialists who were taking care of my mom. I thought the hospital doctors were there to keep this confusion to a minimum. What do patients do that have no one there to speak for them? How do patients who are in dire circumstances get the care they need if they can't coordinate the information coming at them? We wouldn't have even known about the Support Team if Cass hadn't mentioned it.

Minutes later Dr. Navia emerged from the room to address my brother and me. I am using his name because he was the answer to my prayers, the doctor who put all the information together and the first doctor to tell my mom, my brother, and me the whole truth. He said, "Ellie is very sick. She is dying." We said we knew that. He said, "No, I mean she is dying now. Her white blood cell count is very high and there is nothing that will change that." We were speechless. Had he just told our mom? Yes, she knew. Did she know her options? Yes, she wants to go forward with comfort measures only.

I have thought of that conversation often over the last year. Was there anything I could have asked to get to the whole truth? What could I have done differently to save my mom from the days of pain and fear? I don't know what my mom would have decided if she had known all the facts the entire time. She wasn't given the chance to make those decisions. She didn't realize she could say, "What are you doing and why and are there alternatives?" She was put on a ventilator with the hope that her lungs would heal; she took heart meds and antibiotics and pain meds; the doctors treated her lungs, her heart, and her broken bone with a focus on their specialty. No one had put all the pieces together to treat the entire person...

until Dr. Navia. Now there would be a time of transition. The timeframe was unclear and how long she would stay in the SICU wasn't certain. We all trusted that Dr. Navia would sort things out because this was his specialty. My brother and I were now armed with all the information and we would be there every step of the way.

I asked at the nurse's station about visiting after hours when my sister arrived. That decision was up the charge nurse, so I would have to call later that night to find out. It worked out that the same wonderful nurse was on duty that night and when I called she spoke directly to the charge nurse. We had permission to visit when my sister arrived.

While I was waiting for my sister at the bus stop, my phone rang just as the bus was pulling in. It was my brother and his partner. They had gotten the messages. He had been working on his car to get it running, and they were coming Wednesday. 

That late-night visit at the hospital was surreal. It was the three of us chatting and grinning because we were together. Mom had had a few sips of water and some applesauce. The SICU was quiet. The nurse brought in cups and a pitcher of water for us, which tasted as good as any wine. 

There were moments of grace in those difficult days. There were people who helped my mom and my family. I think often of those conversations, too. 

We didn't know what the next days would hold. We did know that we would face it together.

A Pivotal Day

A year ago that first Monday morning in June brought back the hustle and bustle to the hospital. I thought I had found quiet spaces in the hospital to have video chats with family, but it turned out they were waiting rooms for the doctors' offices so were empty on the weekends. All the medical students were back so doctors' rounds were going to be at full capacity.

The first thing my mom brought up when we arrived was her medical directive. My brother had brought a copy with him, but the original was in a bank safe-deposit box 90 miles away. My brother was ready to go get it. At that moment a chaplain we hadn't met before appeared in the doorway and asked if she could visit. We were in the middle of the discussion about treatment decisions, and Cass was the perfect person to be a part. Mom started explaining that she was trying to figure out next steps and Cass asked all the right questions. Mom concluded that what she needed at that moment was a DNR order. She decided to talk to the doctors during rounds.

Then Cass discreetly took me aside and asked me if I knew that the hospital offered palliative care through a Support Team of doctors and social workers. I had no idea and said we were at the very beginning of these discussions. Cass suggested I ask the nurse for a meeting with the Support Team.

Like clockwork the doctors entered the room for rounds. The doctor in charge for the week said there would be an assessment by a speech therapist to determine if my mom could swallow well enough to have fluids and soft foods by mouth. She went through the routine of talking about what had changed and what hadn't. I asked Mom if she had anything to say, and that's when she talked about her quality of life, how she didn't see a way forward, didn't see herself getting better or being able to walk. She told the doctor that she wanted DNR written in her chart. I have never seen a doctor try so hard to not look surprised; she explained exactly what that meant and asked my mom if that was what she wanted. The doctor looked at me and my brother, and I said this was my mom's decision. The doctor again made sure my mom understood that an order of No CPR and No Intubation would be in her chart; my mom stated that that was what she wanted.

Later that morning the speech therapist declared that Mom could have ice chips, fluids, and pureed foods - the first things she could have by mouth in nine days. The nurse said this was a step toward moving to a room. I messaged family with the good news.

The afternoon came with yet another chest x-ray. There was a bit of congestion and it was ordered that she could have nothing by mouth and was again put on high-flow oxygen. She wasn't on the vent, but every other bit of progress had been erased in minutes. I honestly considered sneaking her a bit of water, but then if she choked I would have been devastated.  

My brother supported my mom, but he was having a very hard time with the direction things were taking. From the first day he had questioned the doctors and nurses about every treatment decision because he wanted to understand what was happening and why. Now our mom was making decisions that he didn't understand as hard as she tried to explain. 

So I took it upon myself to make my way to the nurse's station to ask for a meeting with the Support Team because my mom wanted to know her options. I asked the nurse to keep it between us until we had an appointment for the meeting. He said he would make the call, and that it wouldn't be until the next day.

So many things to keep quiet. My mom was adamant that no one other than family and the home health workers back home were to know that she was in the hospital. I asked her if she wanted me to let her late husband's family know and she was firm in her answer "No."

I wrote in my notes that Mom was frustrated, overwhelmed, angry and miserable. Now that she was ready to make decisions she didn't want to wait. I explained to her that it was like the government - she worked for the federal government for many years so she immediately knew what I meant - and that it would take time to get all the right people together to meet with her. I was concerned for her when I left that evening.

We didn't find out until the next day that there were things that we still didn't know, despite one or both of us being with Mom all day every day and asking questions all along the way. 

It was a restless night for all of us. 

June 4

Last year June 4 was a Saturday. It was my seventh day in Morgantown, WV, and my mother's tenth day post-op. She was still in the surgical ICU. My brother left for home the evening of the day I arrived because he had only packed for two nights (he was there four) and he needed to check in at work. I would update him daily.

The morning of the day I arrived the doctors decided my mom needed breathing support because she was exhausted; she was put on a ventilator in CPAC mode. She was breathing "over it," fully conscious, with the expectation that her lungs would benefit from the support and her oxygen level would improve. The respiratory technician regularly checked on her, and we had daily conversations about mom's progress and what needed to happen for the vent to be removed. They gave her a breathing test each morning and that determined the treatment each day. Every morning at doctors' rounds I heard, "She couldn't pass the breathing test; one more day on the vent." 

So my mom perfected communication without talking - hand signals, eye movements, tracing letters on her sheet, and shrugging her shoulders. I asked the staff about a white board, and on Wednesday the respiratory tech found one. Mom and I "chatted" about all kinds of things. I asked her where she wanted to be after the hospital, and she wanted to be near my brother. I was hoping that would be her first choice. He had been a major support for years, a steady presence and trusted advisor. Wednesday was a good day.

Thursday morning I arrived to find her sleeping. She was too tired for the breathing test. Her hip was not healing, and her heart rate and oxygen level could not be regulated. Mom slept off and on all day. I texted my brother and advised him to come on the weekend. Friday was much the same as Thursday, and my brother arrived Friday afternoon.

Considering the way the week had gone, I was stunned when I arrived at the hospital Saturday morning to see my mom sitting up in bed and talking. While it was wonderful to hear her voice, I wondered why the change. The doctors had removed the ventilator and put her on high-flow oxygen. I could not get a straight answer from the doctors as to why the decision had been made. They would not say she passed the breathing test. She could still not have anything by mouth, hooked up to tubes for anything she took in. Her condition seemed to be the same.

My brother and I had a long conversation about what the change could mean. He wanted her to stay on the vent until things improved; I explained that the vent was not a long-term solution. He wondered if they would put her back on if her condition got worse. I said I didn't think so, but he could ask the doctors.

My notes on the day are clinical, facts about her condition and who I talked to. I didn't write anything down about what I was thinking because my thought was that this day was a turning point. My worst fear was that it wasn't in the direction we had all hoped for.

The Journey

My mom was used to me taking care of things. Maybe it was my personality as the oldest child in a dysfunctional family, or I was someone who learned very young that anything I could do to keep my father from getting angry was worth the effort. 

Last year on May 25 my older brother, who lived three hours from my mom, went to the hospital to be there when she got out of surgery. He and I were in regular contact through texts and phone calls so I knew everything that was happening. Meanwhile, for the first three days I was making phone calls to everyone I could think of to discern what the next steps would be when she was ready to be discharged because that was what we all expected to happen. By the end of the third day I knew I had to make plans to travel to northwest West Virginia. Mom was not recovering the way she needed to as her afib and low oxygen levels and intestinal issues were complications on top of all the aspects of hip surgery. My brother needed the support. My mom wanted me to come. 

She knew I would come even though she hadn't asked me for help for 37 years. When I was 30 years old I had to choose between maintaining the relationship I had always had with my family and making the difficult changes I needed to make to take care of myself and my children. For many years my mom didn't understand ~ at one point early on she asked me if I could please just act the way I used to when I was around her and my father because that was easier for them. I explained that I couldn't do that, it wasn't something that could be turned on and off. I had chosen my life over hers and I wasn't going to change back. 

My mom and I maintained a civil, cautious connection through the years. It was in the last few years that we started talking about how life really was all those years ago and the ups and downs of our current lives. We talked openly about our complicated feelings for each other. In the last five years we called each other more often and sent each other more cards. She knew I loved her and I knew she loved me. We respected each other's boundaries. 

So when she asked me to come I knew I needed to go. My mom needed someone who would listen to what she said, understand what she meant, ask the tough questions, have the difficult conversations, and be honest every step of the way. I loved her and could still do the hard things. I could take care of her and take care of myself at the same time. She knew the work I had done, the journey I had taken. 

This poem has been top of mind this week. I found it many years ago and, like so many others, felt like it had been written for me. The journey continues~ 

The Journey

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Two Months Later...

 I had plans. As often happens, life had other ideas.

I was looking forward to house/pet-sitting for my daughter the weekend before Thanksgiving. I had some projects to do for her, and I was going to write and catch up on correspondence. By Saturday the annoying, hacking cough and runny nose I'd had since Tuesday morphed into fatigue and shortness of breath. I managed to keep moving, albeit slowly and with frequent resting, and got some things done with the help of my husband. By Sunday I was all-in and home in bed before noon. I saw the doctor Monday and had a chest x-ray Tuesday: the good news was my lungs were clear; the bad news was that it was a virus that had to run its course. The week was cancelled. My daughter brought groceries on Wednesday and courses from the dinner she had made for Thursday. My husband started fighting a cold, so we were quarantined for the duration. By Tuesday this week, two weeks since the start, I felt well enough to go back to work.

Yes, I have a part-time job, started the first week in October. Three afternoons a week I work at my granddaughter's after-school-care program. I love it. I get to be with 25-30 kids from kindergarten to elementary school age, and I get to talk to adults I enjoy working alongside. We are a creative group, thinking of crafts we can do and always ready to change things to improve the program.

In September I started helping my daughter organize rooms at her house. I love that sort of thing, and it has meant that I get to spend time with her. We work and talk and have lunch and work some more. She passed me her fabric for safe keeping and told me to use what I want, setting aside the solids for her future projects. I have had so much fun sorting and organizing and dreaming of all the things I can do! This set me on the path to take a hard look at my sewing room, what works and what doesn't. In August I brought my mom's wooden kitchen table home to replace the computer table I had been using, and I wanted the room to be more functional...which led to completely rearranging the furniture. I didn't even have everything put away yet, and I just had to sit down and start sewing! The biggest change, and the most necessary move to make the room work for me, is that there is no longer room for the twin-bed trundle to become a king-size bed. The room still works for little guests but no longer for adults. There is a double-size futon downstairs and various other sleeping options for individuals. I was holding a space for once-or-twice-a-year visits, which was a surprising realization...

which seems to be the theme for this fall. Ideas and feelings have bubbled to the surface, and I have accepted them all. No anxiety. No fear. No denial.

The river continues to flow. There is a lot going on underneath the surface....

Like A River

When I traveled to West Virginia in August, I took two books with me. One I never opened. The other was Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening,  a year of meditations that I have opened countless times over the course of many years. As fate would have it, the entry for August 7 was exactly what I needed to read:

What We Bring Along

A river doesn't hold all the water that passes through it.

In our journey through time, we all struggle constantly with what to bring along and what to leave behind. It feels so hard to throw anything away, but if we don't, we will drown underneath a weight of our own making.

The river is a good model. It doesn't own the water that rushes by, yet it couldn't be in more intimate relationship to it, as the force of what moves through shapes it. It is the same with everything we love. In truth, there is no point to holding on to the deepest things that matter, for they have already shaped us.

The purpose of sentiment, then, is to release the powerful feelings that sleep in us. Sometimes books and cards and shells and dried flowers do this. But often we carry more than we need, seldom trusting that what these small treasures represent is already living within us. Often the most useful gift we can give ourselves is to lay our lives open like a river. 

My perspective has shifted. I see everything differently. I am not dragging possessions or ideas or relationships along with me just because I am used to them being in my life. It is not only a useful gift, but it is essential at this point. 

I imagine my life as a river, letting myself go with the flow, holding onto only what serves me well.

As I went to bed the night before last I realized that I was feeling happy. I don't remember the last time I felt that content and at ease. 

Flowing like a river is working for me. 

Habits And Routines

It took a bit of work to get into a habit of getting on the treadmill every day. Once I did and started feeling the benefits, it got easier to keep the commitment. The timing was flexible on the days my granddaughter was here, and I kept up the daily routine last summer through the problems with the floor in the family room. 

Last fall I fell into the habit of walking each morning between 9 and 10. With the treadmill in the sitting room I can monitor laundry, and I nibble breakfast while I'm walking. 

I didn't recognize how much I relied on this routine until two weeks ago when I had the house to myself for a couple days. First thing in the morning I got busy, flitting from one thing to another because I had so much I wanted to get done. Early afternoon I was frazzled and frustrated, and I took a moment to think about what was different. I had not taken time to walk. I chuckled and got on the treadmill.

This past month I have moved walking to later in the morning which has thrown me off a bit. Ken and I make use of the space in the house with an appreciation for what the other person is doing, so now it works for me to walk after 10. This isn't a big deal but it coincides with me trying to add other elements to my routine, and I'm struggling. I'm having trouble settling into time to sew, time on the computer, time for projects that I enjoy. I feel scattered and anxious.

My answer has been to turn my attention to the house - cleaning, repairing, painting. It's okay in the short term but it's not a good long-term solution. I have been in this place before and remember that things do not resolve on their own.

I am putting this out there to hold myself accountable. My doctor and massage therapist are helping me work through the havoc this time of transition is playing on my body. I have suggested adding a stretching program to my schedule, and they both think that's a good idea. Now I just need to start.

I find a way to make time for the things I value. I always have time for my kids and grandkids. I have made daily walking a priority. It takes effort to add something new to my day, to decide to add a new commitment. I have the time. It's up to me to decide how to use it. And I know once I commit to something, I will honor that commitment. I am giving myself notice. 

Two and Fifteen

Wednesday marked two years since the coronavirus began to have an impact on my life. March 9, 2020 was the start of a period of time that I could not have anticipated. Life has not completely returned to how it was in the "before time," and my expectation is that there will not be a 100% return to how life was "before covid." I will continue to make the most informed choices I can based on the best scientific information I can find. 

As I thought about the date there was something in the back of my mind which eventually floated to the surface. I got into the box of house papers and warranties under the bed for confirmation: March 9 is the date we closed on this house fifteen years ago. It's funny that I hadn't focused on that before. Every year I remember the snowstorm on March 17 that stranded us in the middle of painting each room before we moved in a week later. I think about how the kids helped us load and unload the U-haul in the rain, followed by dinner at Ruby Tuesday's and breakfast at Friendly's. That spring I was finishing my graduate work with no internet or cable at this house, and there was not reliable cell phone service. If I had known what we were in for I'm not sure I would have continued to press so hard to make things work, as there were multiple issues to resolve before the closing and the parties involved were not always helpful.

Life is often one foot in front of the other, looking for the light at the end of the tunnel. 

The journey continues....  

2-22-22

 When I first noticed the two's in the dates this month I did not look far enough ahead to see that the best "number" day ever was today. My birthday is this month, and my middle child's birthday is tomorrow, so February is a good month in a normal year. 

As an adult my birthday was a bigger deal when the kids were younger. I made sure there was cake and Ken helped with gifts when they were too young to bake or shop on their own. When they moved out of the house they remembered, and they still do, which is what really matters to me.

I used to set goals for when I would turn a certain age. Sometimes I met them and sometimes I needed more time, which was okay because I had started working towards something I wanted. I set the goal to have my college degree by age 35; I graduated at 36 which was close enough for me. I had my first full-time teaching position two years later.

I started that job with all the optimism and enthusiasm of a first-year teacher at any age. Within weeks the joy was gone ~ I found myself in an untenable situation, co-teaching with a person who everyone knew needed to be removed from the classroom. No one would step forward to say or do what needed to be done. In January I told the principal that I would not return to work with this person the next year due to the situation, and he asked me if I would be willing to help correct the problem. I had nothing to lose, so I said yes. Another new-to-the-school teacher also agreed to speak up. At the outset, we did not know what the outcome would be...and we didn't know until the day after school was out in June that the problem person was transferred to another building to be closely supervised.

The interim months were stressful and difficult. I was in survival mode, trying to make it to the end of the schoolyear. I decided to take a personal day for my birthday, determined not to spend that day in that place with that person. I thought about what I wanted to do just for me, what I could do to take care of myself. I wanted to be at the ocean. I drove to Camden, bought a cup of coffee, and sat in the harbor on that cold February day. It was the perfect thing to do. 

I thought about that day yesterday at the ocean, this time at Popham Beach with my husband and granddaughter. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the waves rolled in as we walked along the shore. It wasn't my exact birthday but the sentiment was the same ~ time to reflect and be grateful for another year. I have mixed feelings about this aging thing and am working to find ways to be okay with the inevitable. More days like yesterday are sure to help.   

New Year, New Word

 Sunlight.

Daylight.

Be the light.

Don't hide your light.

Light on your feet.

Lighten your load.

Light at the end of the tunnel.

Light the way.

See the light.

My word for 2022 is 'light.' Since the first of the year I have thought long and hard about how to make changes this year, how to simplify what I have to do to make more room for what I want to do. What came up again and again was a desire to feel lighter, less encumbered, with more space for thinking and creating and connecting.

I will leave the light on for you~

Restructuring

I saw my osteopath today. On the drive there I took inventory of how my body is doing, to consider what to say when she asked how I'm doing. The word reorganizing came to mind; tonight the word restructuring surfaced. The words are synonyms, as are rearrangement and shift and upheaval (all of which I'm feeling). I like the word restructuring because I can picture building anew the elements that support the whole system.

It feels like my physical body is finding a different way to be. From my ankle turning to my knee locking up to my wrist feeling sore to my back cramping ~ body parts are transitioning as is my thinking. Is one in response to another, or is there a coordinated effort?  

My feelings about situations and relationships are changing, too. I am gentler with myself and others. I wonder about capacity for empathy and willingness to change. I question how two people can manage perceptions and priorities when they don't share the same. 

I still have more questions than answers. Part of what is changing is being okay with that and learning to be patient while I wait. 

I am encouraged when I look around the house and see the reorganizing I have done over the last eighteen months. There is less stuff and more room, a vivid example of how restructuring can be a good thing. I remind myself to look around, take a deep breath, and believe that I am making progress in many ways.

Sunset

I was at the kitchen sink this evening and glanced out the window to see the last light of the evening through the trees and the sliver of the moon between the branches. Of course I couldn't capture the colors or the moon in a photo, but the image has stayed with me ~ trees so dark only the outline of the highest branches shows against the gray-blue sky atop a glowing horizon ~ not all can be seen but what I know from before is that it's there and I will see it again...though it may be changed and not as I remember. 

The book I pulled from the shelf opened to the perfect poem ~ 

 For the Interim Time

by John O'Donohue

When near the end of day, life has drained
Out of light, and it is too soon
For the mind of night to have darkened things,

No place looks like itself, loss of outline
Makes everything look strangely in-between,
Unsure of what has been, or what might come.

In this wan light, even trees seem groundless.
In a while it will be night, but nothing
Here seems TO believe the relief of dark.

You are in this time of the interim
Where everything seems withheld.

The path you took to get here has washed out;
The way forward is still concealed from you.

"The old is not old enough to have died away;
The new is still too young to be born."

You cannot lay claim to anything;
In this place of dusk,
Your eyes are blurred;
And there is no mirror.

Everyone else has lost sight of your heart
And you can see nowhere to put your trust;
You know you have to make your own way through.

As far as you can, hold your confidence.
Do not allow your confusion to squander
This call which is loosening
Your roots in false ground,
That you might come free
From all you have outgrown.

What is being transfigured here is your mind,
And it is difficult and slow to become new.
The more faithfully you can endure here,
The more refined your heart will become
For your arrival in the new dawn.

(From To Bless the Space Between Us, Doubleday, 2008, p. 119-20)

First of November

 It has been exactly three months since I posted. I didn't plan to be away so long. I have constructed dozens of posts in my head but that's as far as I got. This past weekend I made the decision to post every day in November. 

This blog started as a place to connect with other women and evolved into a written record of my life. There have been ups and downs along the way, and writing here was a way to process and keep track of thoughts and events. I spend a lot of time considering how what I share will be perceived by others. Posts are edited with goals of honesty and clarity without pulling others' personal details into the story, and in the last five years it has gotten increasingly difficult to do that.

I would like to find my way back. After all, my word for the year is restore. I don't want things to be as they were, if that would even be possible. I want to feel good about where I am now and hopeful about the future.

I don't know if I can make this work. I have decided that it's worth the effort to try. I anticipate false starts and changes in direction. As I type that I realize that that is what the last thirteen years have been. 

See you tomorrow ~  

What's The Word?

Many years ago, when my kids were all home and I was teaching full time, days were busy. There was always so much to do, and time was at a premium. One day, on a whim, I said we needed a word for the year, a reminder to keep things in perspective. The word that came to mind was "flexibility." It was perfect, so perfect that it was our word for a few years as the days just got busier. It mattered that we could change plans as necessary. It made a difference when we went with the flow. Life was more fun when we took advantage of opportunities that weren't part of the original plan. 

Then there were years that "simplicity" was front and center. As kids started leaving for college and life started going in too many directions, I looked for ways to simplify. Paring down some days to what was most important made it possible to keep going.

The practice of having a specific word for the year was first documented here in 2011. There is a post for each year's word but there hasn't been a complete list in one place until now:

2011    unafraid

2012    possibility

2013    no word presented itself

2014    release

2015    freedom

2016    trust

2017    breathe

2018    acceptance

2019    joy

2020    create

And this brings me to the word for this year, which I have examined from every angle and considered every synonym. It can't be any other word. Nothing else fits.

My word for 2021 is "restore." It doesn't refer to anything external. It is all about how I feel and think about myself from the inside. I want to feel like myself again. I know that I have changed in the last year, much of it due to forces outside my control. I'm sure that contributes to feeling off balance. I want to find my footing from where I am now.

I want to feel confident and capable again. 

I don't know how to make that happen. Maybe putting it out to the universe will start the wheels turning.  

Day 217

A week ago I had a chance to catch up with someone I haven't seen since February. I mentioned how many days I had been staying safely at home, and she was surprised I knew the number. I didn't start keeping count on purpose; it was after weeks went by that I was curious how many days it had been. I told her that in the beginning it didn't occur to me that it would be months, and maybe more than a year, before I could visit family and friends with nary a care.

That knowledge in the beginning would not have been helpful. It was nice to be ignorant of what was ahead.

Summer was another kind of reprieve ~ warmth and sun and more light than dark made the days easier. 

Now that autumn is in full swing with its cooler temperatures and colors and changing light, I am changing gears. I have been going full speed with busy-ness, racing against nonexistent deadlines. Other than paying bills when due and voting, I don't have to get anything accomplished by a certain time. 

I wish that realization provided more relief than it does. I like beginnings and endpoints and deadlines. The more I have to do in a certain amount of time, the more I get done in the time allotted. I like organization, routines, and schedules. I am good at getting things completed and take satisfaction in a job well done. 

I've felt at odds with all the "free" time. Without deadlines I keep assigning more chores, starting more projects, and ending the days feeling like I can't get everything done, the everything that I've put on myself to do.

Now that I've figured this out I'm changing things up a bit. I started something new this month that is helping me change the pace. I wasn't sure how it would work out and it's taken me a number of days to find a groove. A few more days and I'll be ready to share.

The journey continues....

Groceries for $200, Alex

Two years ago the largest grocery store chain in Maine started offering "to go" service, where you place an order for groceries online and have the store deliver them to your car at a designated time. I laughed at the number of parking spots, usually empty, set aside at the store we use most often. I thought the service had value for busy families with hectic schedules, but I didn't think I would ever use it.

Then COVID-19 came to Maine. Ordering groceries online seemed like a smart idea.

So mid-March I put together a list, figured out how to navigate the website, filled a virtual cart, and requested a pick-up time (a slot). The first available slot was four days away, and you are able to edit your cart until the day of pick up. I continued to add items as I thought of them. I figured I wasn't going through this process every week and decided to stock up.

It was a good plan. Many people thought so. The stores who offer "to go" have been overwhelmed with orders and had trouble keeping shelves stocked for walk-in customers, too. My plan went bust the night before my pick-up day ~ I received an email announcing the end of "to go" until the end of March. The stores just couldn't keep up with demand.

Luckily there is a smaller store in the same chain just eleven miles from me. The store is not on the interstate or in a large town, and they don't offer a to-go service. The hour from 6 to 7 on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings is set aside for seniors, and for the first time ever I took advantage of membership in that group. The store was not busy, the shelves were well stocked, and the clerks were wonderful. I was grateful to have such easy access to groceries.

However, I didn't give up on "to go" at the larger store. There are items not available at the smaller store and, while the stores are taking every possible precaution, I liked the idea of not having to enter the building. I modified the list I had created weeks earlier and applied for a slot. The procedure has been modified so that slots are made available for just two days at a time, and they fill up fast. Just after midnight Thursday night I landed a slot for Saturday afternoon. I continued to edit my cart and received notices that several items were not available. I agreed to accept substitutions. I decided to look at the whole experience as an adventure, something like a game show where I didn't know what the prize would be.

I was a bit nervous when I pulled into the parking spot reserved for to-go customers Saturday afternoon. The directions for the entire process had been outlined in an email, and the number to call to announce my arrival was posted on a sign in the parking lot. I made the call, selected option 1, and talked to a woman who explained the no-contact process to pay and how the bags would be loaded into my car. Everything went off without a hitch. It was easier than I thought it would be.

I ordered over $200 worth of food, and the final bill came to just over $149. The basics were covered; and potato chips can be found at the gas station. I will keep trying to find hot dogs because grilling season has started. I am not alone in the search for flour, yeast, and pasta.

The smaller store is still an option...if I set my alarm;)