Barking Backwards

Mr. MacDonald seemed so old when I was a young fourteen just starting high school. But as I reflect back, I realize that he was probably the age I am now. He taught my freshman English class and he loved poetry.   The first poem we studied was:

“The old dog barked backwards without getting up, I can remember when he was a pup.

He spent so much time on that little poem.  I think it was two solid lesson days spent on dissecting it and discussing its hidden meanings.   It made such an impact that of the many fascinating things I learned in my high school years this little poem remains in my memory.

I’ve been feeling a bit like that old dog lately.   I’ve spent much time this summer healing my injuries from the car accident and healing requires stillness.  The longer the healing process took, the more I realized that the stillness has been good for my healing heart as well.   

Perhaps all the times this past year or so when God told me ‘no’ when I signed up for some activity it was with good reason.  The number of times plans just didn’t work out for various reasons cannot be coincidental.   And the fun outings I did have were all the more special – with family and friends and each memorable in its own way.    I suspect that God knew I needed some stillness in my life to help my healing heart. 

I remember when I saw my oncologist a few months after Robert passed away.   She said it had been obvious to her how deeply we loved each other.  I shared with her that another acquaintance had mentioned how much she admired the care  and kindness with which we treated each other.   My doctor smiled sadly and said that the one problem with finding your soul mate is how much it hurts to lose them.   

If I had known this simple fact of loss earlier in life, would it have deterred me from finding my soul mate?  I think not.   I’ve always felt that living life with an open heart is so much more pleasant than a closed one.  Sure – you feel pain that others do not- but your joy is great.

My doctor’s comments helped me to understand that the depth of the unspeakable pain I was enduring was a reflection of the love we had shared.   I know that my heart is still healing.  My wonderful cousin pointed that out to me last year and it holds true today.   Healing takes more time than you expect.  And stillness.   Restful, quiet times set amongst the busier moments.   I may be barking backwards just a bit longer.  Although, I am starting to remember being a pup.  

Nesting

It seems lately I have used much of my free time on little decorating projects in my home.  And I have to say that the difference it is making in my day-to-day quality of life is amazing.  I call it ‘accessorizing’ my home.   It all feels more complete and I no longer have the sense that it is not quite finished. 

We had selected everything with such care before moving into this new home and then it was a full stop all last year.  This summer I have been feeling motivated to finish what we started.  Just this week I actually hung a new shower curtain in the guest bathroom.  The new towels have been ordered and should arrive any day.   It really is the little things that can make you happy.  I will no longer be thinking ‘I really should get this room done’ every time I walk into it. 

As I stroll from room to room, I feel content that I have finished these little projects to add my personal touches to my home.   The flameless candle wall scones add a soft, warming glow to the living room each evening when they turn on.   The new-to-me teacup shelf looks amazing with my teacup collection on display.  And I decided to go ahead with a craft desk in a corner of the guest bedroom--  I can see myself working on projects there.  And that is a sign of my entering a new phase of transition.   I actually want to work on projects again.   I am enjoying the creative process again.   I think Robert would be pleased.  He always encouraged me to work on my scrap booking and decorating projects. 

Words Are Easy

I’m sure we’ve all heard the advice that words are easy, it’s actions that matter.  But have you really thought about that lately?   Because, as I look around our world, I see a lot of easily uttered words but not so many actions.    Congress is a classic example but….wait, I don’t want to go there. 

You know those social ‘white’ lies?  Like saying we’ll get together to do this or that?   The person making the statement gets to bask in the immediate happiness of the recipient without actually making the effort to follow through. 

Of course, there are the classic words of caring we often share with family and friends.  But if you really think about it – it’s the actions to express that caring that mean so much more.  Actually visiting that relative in the nursing home.  Actually attending that child’s school event.  It’s the time spent together more than the words.   Is it a ten minute ‘duty’ call to mom or dad?  Or are you spending the time for a good, long chat? 

Or what about those polite or even caring words uttered to someone but then the mockery starts once the back is turned?   An action not quite in keeping with those easily spoken words.  But as a society it has become a way of life.  When did mockery and sarcasm become so popular anyway?   I miss  kindness and sincerity. 

Then there is the deeper issues- the dreams vocalized but never acted upon.   No tiny steps taken to actually make that dream come true.  Perhaps it is the hope to do more for your community but then life intervenes and there just wasn’t the time. 

How are all these examples interconnected?  I believe that uttering those easy words on the small daily things leads to us being frozen on the larger, more significant goals, hopes or dreams.  We start to believe the self-talk that we have not the time.  No time to call mom.  No time to make your small piece of the world a better place.  Dreams can wait till later. 

I believe that we should all be more aware of all those words coming our way on a daily basis.   Do they reflect genuine kindness and actual commitment for our well-being?  Are there actions backing up those words?  If not, it may be time to welcome new people into our respective personal worlds. 

We also need to be mindful of the words we put out there-  are we following them up with action?  Do we genuinely mean what we say?  In other words, would new people welcome us into their personal worlds?

At the end of any given day, those words are just too easy to say.  And perhaps are not needed after all.  It really is actions that matter.  Let us strive to be promise keepers.  Let our actions reflect our intentions.

"M'am"

Do you remember the first time someone called you ‘m’am’?  I think I was somewhere in my thirties and I recall thinking – well, that ‘miss’ phase is definitely behind me now.   It didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would.  But you have to understand that back then I had one of those faces where people always thought I was much younger than I was.  Folks thought I was in junior high when in high school and in high school when in college.  One time in my late twenties I ran to the movie theatre to buy tickets for the nighttime show and the kid at the booth actually carded me because it was rated R.  Seriously. 

And now I look around me and think everyone looks so much younger than they are.  And folks don’t usually use ‘m’am’ anymore.   We’ve lost a lot of the generational respect that we used to have.  I still call ladies ‘m’am’ and men ‘sir’ when they are much older than me.  I get smiles all the way around. 

But lately I’ve been thinking that ‘m’am’ might actually just be code for this stage of life.  You know what I mean:  Middle-Aged Memory.   MAM.    You are mid-sentence and suddenly you forget where you were going with what you had just said….you pause….and pause….and then you realize with utter horror that you really can’t recall where you were headed conversationally.    You try to laugh it off and say if it’s important it will come back.  But it does not.  

You walk into a room and you can’t remember why you wanted to come into this room.  You walk back to where you were before and retrace your steps.  But this old trick does not work anymore.   You notice that your mug of tea is on the counter over there.   Gone cold.  Forgot you made it.    Then you spy the post-it note you left by the phone with questions to ask when a call came through.  Too bad you answered the phone in the other room. 

You make a bowl of cereal for breakfast.  You have the milk in your hand and open the cupboard door where the bowls are kept and as your hand approaches the shelf you realize….this is not right.   The milk is headed for the fridge, really.  And why can we suddenly remember events with utter clarity from decades ago but couldn’t remember that neighbor’s name if lives depended upon it?

Does MAM exist because we have so many decades of knowledge and experience crammed into our brains that something has to give? Is our little memory librarian surrounded with tomes of our acquired facts, thoughts, and life time events?  And in sheer desperation, and quite at random, tossing out some volumes to make room?  

If you haven’t received your first ‘m’am’ then by all means enjoy the years beforehand.  But once you do, be on the lookout for the start of MAM.  A phase of life where you might want to start carrying around a bag of breadcrumbs…just in case.

Hiatus

Is that possibly the correct date?   I seem to have been much consumed with the physical side of life lately --  medical tests,  an illness here, an injury there.   I’ve started joking that I’m a frequent flier at my primary care doctor’s office.  The staff all know me by name.   In the midst of it all, it seems I ran out of words.  Perhaps it was the intense focus on the body that only pain can bring.   It does tend to blot out other thoughts when movement causes you to catch your breath. 

But tonight, as I did the extended dental care that braces require, I found words gently drifting across my mind.   Oh, it’s coming back- I’ve missed it!   What wonderful things are slowly stirring in my soul seeking to be shared?   It’s actually a bit of a mystery to me.   I usually just start writing and see where it goes.

Tonight I am remembering this poster I used to have.  I purchased it at the Harvard Coop in Cambridge Square when I was a freshman in college.   I eventually had it framed and it hung on the wall of various homes for years to come.  One day I passed it on to others.  I wonder where it ended up.  Funny how things float up from your memories.   Perhaps the feelings that poster represented are just appropriate for where I am this evening.   It was a gorgeous photo of the woods with a bit of a stream and a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson: 

“Think me not unkind and rude, That I walk alone in grove and glen; I go to the god of the wood. To fetch his word to men. “ 

Competition Nation

At church this morning I heard the couple sitting behind me tell another couple it was their 29^th anniversary today.  I turned to congratulate them.  They always sit behind me and we share the sign of peace but hadn’t spoken otherwise.  This is my opportunity, I thought.   The other couple announced they had celebrated their 52^nd anniversary.  I shared that my neighbor was married 65 years.   Afterwards I got to thinking.   Should we just have let them enjoy the glow of their 29 years without sharing other stories with them?   It’s so natural to do so, but was it appropriate?   When does sharing cross that line into competition?

Of course, it is part of our culture to compete.  We compete about everything.  Mommy wars.  Daddy wars.  Grandma wars.  Couple time.  Work.  Cars. Homes.  Interest rates on our investment or savings accounts.  Mortgage rates on our homes.  Who has the smartest child/grandchild?  Whose child has the most activities and excels at them?   What school does the child go to?   Who had the most vacations? Which ones sounded the most exotic on the retell? Who has the best dog or cat?  Who saw the latest movie?  Who read the latest best selling book?  Who tried the new restaurant?  Who shops at more exclusive stores?  Who is the busiest?  Who is the most productive? Who was married the longest?  Who was widowed the longest?  Who works out the most?  Who is the sickest?  Who has the most ailments?  Who attends church more frequently?   It never ends.  And we have all been guilty of it at times to one degree or another.  When does sharing cross that line?

And there is the untold hurtfulness that this behavior can wrought.   The long-term damage to relationships and the eventual alienation it will bring.  A truly competitive person will pitch that zinger at just the right moment in a conversation.   ‘Well this works for you but for me…[fill in the blank as to topic].    ‘This car is so cute but…’  or  ‘I don’t like [blank] but other people do.”   As a relatively new widow, I have even been the recipient of a few conversational lobs of  ‘we’ve been married [blank] years.’   At random, they had to work it into the conversation although marriage or relationships wasn’t being discussed.  It seems that a competitive nature can’t contain itself.  Even when that particular competitive field has been definitively closed to my participation.   

As the comments start flying across conversational streams, I’m always left wondering – why can’t they just express happiness for you and share in your contentment?  Why say anything else at all?  I think people forget the kindergarten basic that everyone gets a turn to be the center of attention.  And for a competitive soul – the fact that you aren’t competing with them makes no difference.    They are still instinctively determined to ‘win this one.’  I tend to grow leery when I am in conversation and someone uses the word ‘but.’

At the heart of all of this stems some good intentions.  People want a good life.  They want the best for their children.  The need to prove it to others is the crux of the issue.  So, I propose that all of the good things are possible without the national game of competition.  Many people have naturally stepped back from the precipice this competitiveness brings.  It is a free fall into an empty and endless battle to still be seen as ‘the one in the know.’  And when you are sitting at the end of your life-  will any of this make a significant difference to you?  I can assure you that it will not.  Your concern will be if your loved ones will be okay after you’re gone.  Your one disappointment will be that you won’t have more time with your loved ones.  

And of course from a Christian perspective, it truly is pointless- for there is room in heaven for every one.   No competition.   No sign up sheets.  No getting ahead in line for a better view.   No early placement needed.  God has already chosen the perfect place for you.  It’s done.  You just have to accept this gift.   And does anything else really matter?   So you see, competition really is a pointless past time.  Just something to ponder.  Maybe our nation can change.   One conversation at a time.

That Abyss

The vastness of it overwhelms.   You try not to approach the edge of the yawning chasm.  It’s darkness makes you feel cold and you shiver.   The unseen bottom and opposite sides gives you pause.   Best not to think of it – that abyss of your future years without your love.  An unplanned future spent on your own.  If dwelled upon it could prove terrifying in its enormity.

In the early days, I would wonder at how I could fill the years ahead of me.   I learned it was best to just focus on each day.  It works most of the time.   It really does.  But there are those occasions when that abyss looms large in the mind.  Sometimes at random moments when least expected.  Sometimes when you are marking a special occasion or other memory pivot point.  A day or week when you remember what once was.   Not that you ever really forget it.  It’s just become easier to be distracted from the pain on more days the further you are out from your loss. 

I think of my future path from a Christian perspective.   And it helps to put my trust in God as I plan each day.   But yet- there are those unexpected moments.  Moments when the abyss startles me with its presence.  I say a little prayer.  I write a little blog.   Comforted by the knowledge gained from experience that in the morrow it will seem less daunting. 

Eggsa Tradition

Easter is such a glorious time of the year, isn’t it?  And the liturgical weeks following the big day allow us to continue the celebration albeit with a continued focus on the cross and what it ultimately means for Christians.

So I was excited to spend the holiday weekend with my family ‘up Maine.’   On Easter morning, after church, my mom and I made a batch of deviled eggs.  It’s the tradition every year to have them.  Many Easters I made them for myself when celebrating with my husband.   So we make a batch and start looking for THE egg plate.  The one that my mom remembers her mama using when she was a little girl.   We search everywhere. When it becomes apparent that this plate is truly missing, both of us search harder.  With increasing anxiety.  I run to my sister’s home next door to see if it was left there from last year.  But no.   We question each other as to where it could have been.  Was it given to another family member? No she insists.    Definitely not at my house I tell her.  The only conclusion reached is that when my mother was jettisoning some excess clutter a few years ago it must have accidentally been set atop a giveaway box when she cleaned off a shelf.  Noooooo!

And slowly we begin to mourn its loss.  I had never bought an egg plate for myself all these years.  I just assumed one day my mom would tire of hers and pass it onto me.  She never did.  She loved that plate and the memories of all those Easters.  It was unique because it was the size of a dinner plate but had spaces for a full dozen eggs or 24 deviled eggs.  In the center was a delicate painted arrangement of small pink roses.  So me.  So her.  So my grandmother.    And so unique I never saw another that tempted me its acquisition. 

Far be it from us to spoil Easter dinner with the family over a lost plate.  We muster our spirits of gratitude and head next door to my sister’s.  She has an old egg coloring plate that we use.   Mom and I share a look as we reach for a deviled egg each.  So not the same and we sigh.   We two may actually be the only ones in the family who love deviled eggs.  The only ones to mourn this latest loss.   Nothing unites two souls like shared grief.   As we know all too well.  By the end of the meal we are feeling better about it.  After all- what can be done now?

A week or two later I decide to do a search on eBay.  And, yes, indeed there are a couple of egg plates.  They only have the standard 12 slots for 6 eggs and the flowers in the center are mixed colors but each one does have a pink flower.  So both are ordered.  One for me and one for my mum.   

It may never be the same as my grandmother’s plate, but we can move forward and enjoy our deviled eggs again.   And these new plates will have a story to tell as well.  A story of mother and daughter united in a traditional plate of memory keeping.   A mother and daughter who have shared grief and then understood each other better for it. 

Fake it till ‘Ya Feel It

When I woke up this morning I could sense that I would have to force myself to get out of the house today.  Last evening was difficult because I was feeling a bit under the weather and missing my love.   My natural nestling instinct kicked in this morning and I so just wanted to stay home.  Curl up on that couch and ignore the world.   Then I recalled my promise that I would work on balance.   I needed to find positive things on the weekends to balance the weight of the workweek.   Sigh.

A recent conversation with my sister came to mind.  She told me that sometimes ‘ya just have to fake it till you feel like it.   This is one of those days I told myself.   I put on a cute top and chose coordinating earrings and headed to the garage with a newspaper clipping in tow.  I told myself that if it was really not fun I could just come home.  

It was chilly and drizzly so I had on my new fuchsia rain jacket.  That ought to perk me up I thought.   I put in the address for a seaside botanical garden that I hadn’t visited in nearly twenty years.  I still remember the garden party I attended at Fuller Gardens.  It is located about a block from the seawall with a walking path.  Today was their annual plant sale said the newspaper and I was looking for herbs. 

The rain stopped and it became quite humid there by the sea.  I found some really great looking plants and decided to become a member there.  This could be one of my new ‘happy places.’  A reason to get out of the house on random Saturday mornings.   In the gift shop I joined a couple ladies in their passionate discussion of the most recent Downton Abbey season.   Of course, I told them.  Garden lovers would enjoy that show!  We reminisced about season one with the tea and garden parties and all those hats.

As I left, I put in the address for a craft fair on the common in Hampton Falls, a neighboring town.  As I drove along the seawall, the sun came out and the sea was sparkling to my left.  I was suddenly hungry and there was the Beach Plum restaurant I ate at last year with my mom.  I pulled in and got a fresh haddock sandwich.  The beach facilities were open across the street.  I got there just before the huge lunch crowd arrived.

When I got to the craft fair I realized I would have to park a ways down the street.  Well I said to self – good exercise and fresh air all together.  The common was covered in newly mowed grass a lovely deep shade of green, soft and comfortable for strolling around the craft tents.  I found many things I liked but was there for the entertainment factor more than the shopping.    Chatted with a few artisans at their booths.  As I was leaving the common, I noticed a sign for a local farm and it was further down the street I was parked on.  Well, I can get home from there quite easily.  I’ll just drive a new road I said to self as I banged a u-turn mid road.  No traffic in either direction, trust me. 

At Applecrest Orchards I picked up some new red potatoes and green onions so I can make potato salad on Sunday.  I actually found a small jar of pickled eggs.  Too funny.  They were featured in a scene in a recent book group read about some Russians and the meal they ordered in a bar.  I had wanted to recreate it at home.   Maybe I will.   Well, except for the herring.  There are limits as to what I am willing to try.   I had a nice chat with the owners at the cashier stand.   I got something to drink in the refreshment shed and admired the rows of perennials they had for sale.  It was less humid and the breeze was lovely.  The sun’s strong rays made it feel warmer than the 67 degrees the thermometer indicated.

As I left I marveled at the circuit I had made in my junket.  It was only twenty miles in total and I didn’t get on the highway once.  Many of the roads I hadn’t driven before.  Lovely discoveries of small town commons, old trees and rock walls.   The entire outing took only three hours.  And somewhere along the way I didn’t have to fake it anymore. 

Softly Arrives the Spring

I sit bathed in gentle early morning sunshine with mug of tea at the ready.   All the grass and trees are quite green in my neighborhood.   Contemplating another neighborhood walk as the morning progresses.  Perhaps that lady in the back will have finished spreading that huge pile of mulch?  Perhaps not just yet.

After all the cool weather and rain, these rays of sun feel particularly sweet.   I hear so many people complaining about the lack of spring this year.  I smile as I point out that this year is more normal than recent years.  Spring should be slow and gentle in its arrival.   Excessive warmth is more suited to late summer days than spring.  

I recall that spring a couple years ago when it was 80 degrees on the first day of spring.  Nothing gentle about that year - in the spring weather or my life.   I hadn't considered before if the weather mirrors the patterns of our lives.   I believe it is coincidence.   Or maybe we notice things with different perspectives depending on our moods.

The gentleness of this spring is a welcome respite for me as I journey on.   The warmth of the sunshine is as welcome as the warmth of my family and friends with whom I have been spending much time of late.  Alas, my blog has been put on the back burner.  Yet today, my creative side is bubbling to the surface.  

Weebles Wobble, They Don’t Fall Down

I always thought that little song about the ability of Weebles to wobble was cute.  One of the joys of having a younger sister when I was growing up was that I had fun with toddler toys when I was a toddler and then again when I was older.  It was allowed.  And those little Weebles really couldn’t fall down.  It was all in the balance.  They could sway pretty far and lay down for a moment.  But they always bounced back up.

Last week I may have fallen down.  Never fear, I have bounced back up.  But for a time, I had fallen.  How could this happen I wondered?  All those layers of stress over the past months with work and medical issues just kept adding to the pile otherwise known as grief.  If you ever had allergies then you know what I mean.  One allergen won’t cause an attack, neither will two or three.  But you layer them all at the same time and WHAM – allergic reaction of mammoth proportions.  Apparently tons of stress building over months can collide with a grief burst and it gets messy.

I thought I was doing everything right.  Going for walks, healthy meals, resting on the weekend, etc.  It’s not enough if the stress levels get too high.  There are always signs – perhaps going through bottles of Tums and Tylenol that quickly?  I went in to see my doctor and she calmly pointed out that perhaps I should schedule a vacation.  Just a few days off.  And plan some fun things to do.  Perhaps a movie or eating out.   She wisely suggested that I have had a lot of negatives the past few years.  I need to add in some positives.   My countdown for retirement is a positive -  I always knew this job would be the death of me.  Wink.  But perhaps more is needed. 

Yesterday I met a woman who lost her husband to divorce and within a few years he passed away.   We started talking and made a connection.  We may never see each other again.  She must have sensed my situation because she asked the question.  Or perhaps it was the hand of God.   She offered some suggestions as to what she does to get out of the house and have fun.  She goes to the movies.  On a random Wednesday or the weekend.  She goes by herself.  I started laughing and said someone else had suggested the same thing a few days ago.  I told her that my husband wasn’t a big movie kind of guy so we rarely went.  But I used to love the movies on the big screen.  She shared that she doesn’t eat at restaurants alone but will eat at the bar and just order a small plate.  She sits at the end and people watches.  She was a great lady finding small joys in her life each week.  To think the conversation started because I used the word ‘plethora’.  Such a fun word.  Turns out it was her departed mother’s favorite word.   Serendipitous moments begin this way.

Last night I found a journal book in the pile contained in a basket on my desk.   The first page was a list of fun things Robert and I were going to do in retirement.  Ouch.   The next few pages were the moving list of box contents from when we were packing up the townhouse.  Ouch.  I debated whether I should tear those pages out of the book but decided to leave them for now.   I think I need to start keeping track of the fun things I’m doing.   Not what I plan to do, but what I have actually done.  I have a notebook jammed full of ideas that I started collecting after my cancer diagnosis.  The ideas themselves won’t give me balance.  So far I have: the discovery a couple weeks back of a comforter set that matches my bedroom perfectly.  And the new adventure of cooking a turkey breast in my crock- pot.   I’m spending time with my family for Easter so that gets added to the list.  Then there’s my DAR chapter and book group monthly meetings. 

Progress both great and small takes time.  More time than you expect.  And sometimes if we lack balance we will fall.   Remember to be like those Weebles.  Weebles Wobble, but they don’t fall down.  At least not for long.

Irrepressible Hope

I just watched The Great Gatsby.  I remember reading the book in college.  Great film rendition.  About the carelessness of people.  The callous carelessness.  And the irrepressible hope of one man.  Clinging to his dream.  Not able to accept that the dream had already ended long ago.  The death scene got to me.  I sobbed during the credits thinking of my lost love.

And I am now left to ponder:  what do you do with your innate irrepressible hope once the dream is gone?  How do you harness it as you move forward?  How can it be redirected into a new dream?  And how long will it take before you are able to focus on a new dream?  Will you know it when you see it?  So many questions lodged in the simple words of an author in a novel written long ago. 

I look around.  I reflect upon my life and all I’ve done.  I’ve already accomplished so many of the things I wished to in the realm of education, career and travel.  I was blessed with a grand romance and abiding love in my husband.  I’ve had interesting adventures great and small.  I’ve enjoyed the companionship of family and friends.  I have loved and been well loved in return.   I have no regrets.   I have indulged in many creative pursuits over the years.  It is an interesting place to be, this stage of life.   I have many more years behind me than before me.   The future is a blank canvas.   Yet, I have no desire to rush to fill it.  Most unusual for me.   I am content to wait upon God.  I trust that the guidance will come when the time is right.  And that the small part my life plays in the gorgeous tapestry He is creating will be as it should.

As I journey forward, I shall have to be on the lookout.  Looking for clues.  Evaluating hints.  What will the new dreams be?  A person with irrepressible hope needs something to look forward to.  My last dream standing is early retirement.  I’m sure others will come to me in time.  But for today, I so understand how Gatsby could cling to his dream against all odds.  He instinctively understood the unbearable nature of the pain its loss would bring.