Sunny Days are Here Again…

The front(s) that brought hail, wind, cold drizzling rain (we did need the moisture!) have moved out and I gaze upon blue skies this a.m.  Wind is still blowing through trees dressed in fewer leaves (compliments of the hail), pushing the storm far to the east.

Colorado has it all – in the past few days, during overlapping time frames, our state weather map included the following:

• Tornado Advisory
• Hail Advisory
• Winter Storm Warning
• Thunderstorm Watch
• Flash Flood Watch
• High Fire Danger
• High Wind Advisory

Because of late snows and heavy rains, I’m sure some areas probably had concerns about mud slides, falling rocks and/or avalanche warnings, too.

For myself, I’m grateful this a.m. because the winds that blew these storms through have, somehow, managed to blow the stink off me.

I awoke this morning to realize I’m done being in a funk – at least for now.

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A Gratitude Tuesday post by fellow blogger Malinda Essex, came on the heels of my decision that enough is enough, I simply must pull myself out of this funk.   Years spent riding one wave of loss after another has left me tired and somewhat disheartened.   This morning I awoke to the mental reminder, “Yes, but you always manage to get back on track.   You just have to do so one more time.”

The next thought was no surprise, “How do I get off track in the first place?”

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While my initial answer is completely rooted in the world exterior to myself (Loss of loved ones), closer examination reveals what alternate routes I choose when Death and other losses enter the arena of my life:

• Pretend Positive Outlook (smiling when I’d rather be crying)
• Denial of the need to grieve the loss sustained
• Intense bouts of creative thought, followed by furious ‘doing’ to distract myself from my inner need to grieve
• Over-doing  leads to exhaustion and illness.
• Exhaustion/Illness mean no energy to keep up the Positive facade (which is not energy efficient anyways)
• Tired, spent and grumpy beyond all belief, I sink into a funk, with few, if any reserves, left to haul myself out.

Interesting, all the detours I make when I could have just sat down, cried, been in a funk for a day or two and then decided, “Where do I go from here?”

I’ve long been aware I will take any detour that shows up along the path of my life – I’ve always thought detours were where you found the neatest things on road trips.

Yet I still bemoan the detours I take in my attempt to push through Grief, rather than sitting beside him for awhile.

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I’m once more reminded of the poem, Along the Road, by Robert Browning Hamilton:

I walked a mile with Pleasure

She chattered all the way,

But left me none the wiser

For all she had to say.

 

I walked a mile with Sorrow

And ne’er a word said she;

But oh, the things I learned from her

When Sorrow walked with me!

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And so, fresh from yet another instructional detour with Sorrow, I wend my way back to the nearest station and sit in the sun, thoughtfully considering which train to board next.

The Lurking Troll and Lost Faith

Grief jumped out and grabbed me this morning.  I’ve come to the conclusion Grief must be a troll-like creature – he (obviously a he, no woman ever caused me this much problem!) has become more wily – stealthily evading all the wonderful detours , labyrinths and traps I’ve erected around myself in order to gain some peace and lead him somewhere far from me.

He’s learned how to sneak around, jump up and bite me in the butt when I least expect it…

Durnit….

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I’ve immersed myself in the Teaching Series, available at my local library.   These wonderful CD volumes with accompanying study guides contain a series of lectures from a host of college professors on a a variety of topics.

Yesterday, I started Professor Tefluio F. Ruiz’s course, “The Terror of History – Mystics, Heretics and Witches in Western Tradition”.   A broad overview of the culture, political, economical and religious mores of the time period from approximately 1000  – 17000 A.D., this course examines the foundations upon which Mystics were created, Heretics identified and what powerful social climates lead to the Burning Times for those labeled “Witch”.

So perhaps I should not be surprised that Grief showed up today.   After all, you cannot immerse yourself in the subject matter of the nature of God, nature of Man, how we explain our birth, life and death, without at some point, thinking about the ones you’ve lost…

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Interestingly, Professor Ruiz starts the course with his idea of how religion and culture come about.

Excerpt:

“The Satyr, who frequently dined with the gods, was asked by King Minos what was the best gift to request from the gods.   After he spouts a variety of possibilities, including wealth, power and wisdom, the Satyr turned on  Minos and blasted,

“You Fool!  The kindest gift man could ever receive from the gods is to never be born.”

This story eloquently illustrates what I call the “Terror of History”.  Once we became self-aware, conscious, if you will, we came to be at the mercy of the Terror of History – aware of our own mortality and fragility, aware of the apparent chaos of the world around us and the fact so many of the natural forces to which we could fall victim at any time were completely out of our control.

In order to distract ourselves from this Terror, we looked to magic and ritual – changing it as we went, in a futile attempt to control the world around us – and ensure our survival.  These rituals developed into religious beliefs and dogma.

Some looked to materialism, hedonism, if you will, in order to escape the Terror.   A focus on the moment and all the pleasures of life, immersing themselves in what could be experienced richly through the senses.

Still others looked to ways to bring order and beauty to the chaos.   Through intellectual pursuit, laws, art -  they forged cultures that strove to bring order and control to daily life.   Through the pursuit of obtaining order, they gave meaning to their lives.

These three responses to Terror are the cornerstones of the rise of  western civilization.”

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Makes sense to me.   I know about the Terror.   I also know about all the various ways you can attempt to escape it.   Lately, I tend to spend most of my focus of escape in the number 2 and 3 categories – cigs, intellectual pursuits and hobbies bring me a calm that meditating or praying fail to provide – -

In other words, I’ve lost my Faith….She’s probably wondering around in one of the mazes I set up to entrap that nasty ole troll, Grief….

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It soothes me to immerse myself in the stories of the past.   Learning about the times when women couldn’t vote, inherit or own property – when 5 out of 10 of your neighbors were dying from plague – when life was a precarious existence, a daily toil in the fields with the possibility of either wacky weather killing your crops or the local Lord and his knights deciding to duke it out with another in your field of barley – -when despite your most ardent prayers and work, any number of natural or man-made disasters could befall you at any moment, without warning.

When I immerse myself in times of the past, I realize how wonderful my current reality is.   I realize how much worse it could be.   And I feel gratified that I have only had to bury one child, and not seven or eight or more, as many of my ancestors did.

Faith may be lost in the maze of my own making, but she still manages to shout directions to me over the top of the hedge….

Grief or Guilt?

By now, if you join me regularly, you’ll have figured out that my blog is less a sales pitch or useful social/intelligent commentary and more a daily journal…

I’ve known for a long time that I fall far on the right side of the Internal vs. External Processing pendulum.

I ponder, I analyze, I think for days on end.   But in the final analysis, to really keep sane, I have to work through things ‘out there’…

Meaning, I talk and write.

Since allegations of “Chatty-Kathy” have followed me for years, I’ve turned more to writing.   For one thing, my jaw finally got tired.   For another, I’m very sensitive to criticism (constructive or not) right now.   It’s hard to tune me out when I’m talking.   But hey, you chose to come here and read.  And you can criticize all you want in the privacy of your own home, where I can’t hear you…

Writing in my personal journal does not do the trick.   I can only see all the different perspectives of something if there is a believed-to-exist external audience.  (Hence, talking to folks with eyes glued to the TV does not result in completion for me either…)

So this morning’s topic is in regards to the various diagnosis regarding the persisting physical pain since my bout with pneumonia last year.

Western medicine dismisses current pain and past illness being related at all.   Narcotics and suggestions of therapy for depression are the recommended treatment.

Holistic medicine has danced around, “inflammation, stored toxins, stress, depression and guilt.”

Laymen diagnosis is, “Don’t care what it is, get it fixed and fast – can’t stand seeing much more of this.”

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My recent sojourn to a new practitioner who doesn’t know the story of my life for the past few years, resulted in a re-telling of the death of my oldest son from bacterial meningitis.

New doc asks, “Do you feel guilty?”

Are you kidding?   Of course I do.   I’m a Mom.  My job is to protect and nurture those given to my care.   One is dead.   Obviously, I failed in my mission.   How can you even ask such a stupid question?

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There has been a lot of similar advice tossed my way for quite a few months now.   Quite frankly, if I hear the words “co-dependent”, “guilt” or “depression” one more time, I’m going to make those who go postal look like amateurs.

For the record – I finally looked up the definition of ‘co-dependent’.  The allegations that I am are not true.

I really would like folks around me to quit having traumas, illnesses and such, so I could selfishly think about me and my healing, without feeling selfish.   But I’m still an empathetic person – If someone is struggling and I think I can be of help, I feel guilty if I don’t offer…

On the other hand, I’m famous for wrecking my own health in order to care for or provide for others.   It’s not on purpose.   I figure staying up all night in a hospital or working 120 hours a week is only a short term endeavor – I don’t ever plan for that to become my life….

(yes, I’m aware there are careers where I can work a 12-hour graveyard shift at a hospital and get paid for my time… I have a unique talent – people feel safe dying around me.   Since I tend to get attached and don’t want to inadvertently place my talent around those not sure about taking the journey just yet, those careers don’t really seem viable options…)

Guilt – This is sort of a no-brainer – I’m very much a product of my own environment.  Please combine the following belief systems and see what you come up with:

• God helps those who help themselves
• Love your neighbor as you love yourself (in other words, what would I give myself if I was in their shoes?)
• You create your reality

My result when faithfully following the above recipe is: “How could I abandon one who is hurting right now?” “How could I possibly have done this to myself?  And why would I?”   and finally, “I have no one to blame but myself”.

My definition of guilt is as follows:

The emotional response to behavior that is either internally recognized or externally labeled as detrimental to others.

Depression – I’m not depressed.  There are plenty of things I’m interested in.  They just aren’t the same things as Before I Lost Two Whom I Loved Best.

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Still, part of the Rx script sent home with me was to, “Cut yourself some slack.  Get rid of the guilt and shame.  Quit arguing with who you are and just be.”

The last one cracked me up.  I AM being who I am.  Right now, that means I’m still ‘what iffing’ myself to death, and in general, a crusty, grumpy, cynical ole fart.   I totally accept that is who I am right now.   Why else do you think I shared it with you?

On the other hand, I apparently am ready to BE something else, hence I’m here….some help please? (Ya know, I really am very lucky anyone even ventures to take me on as a patient… Count your blessings, they say.)

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I’m well aware of the school of thought that says, “Each moment you make a choice of who you are.”

I’m also well aware of my life long story of, “I don’t want to be a person who leaves a path of destruction five miles wide behind me.”

Guilt, regret and shame are useful to keep you on the straight and narrow.   At least that’s the story planted in my brain.

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Not too long after Morgan died I had my little fit of hysteria.   I was at the local newspaper to submit and pay for the required Thank You note.

(Which also meant adjusting our annual budget, as I cannot say anything in 50 words or less (without cursing) and as a personal household, we are not allowed to run a trillion dollar deficit….)

I also picked up last week’s copy to re-read the obituary I had penned while running on no sleep and loads of coffee.   Too late to edit, but wanted to see if perhaps, after not seeing it for a week, I was still satisfied with it.  (I say I just write and don’t edit much – - I’ve been known to tell untruths occasionally…)

I discover the obituary did not run in last week’s issue.   How on earth can I submit a Thank You note if the obit hasn’t run?   Extreme panic, anger, stress – - fill in any other negative emotions you wish – - The carefully placed lid I had put on my emotions was working up to a blow similar to Pompeii…

The newspaper folks were very understanding of my incoherent ramblings.  Not to worry, could I just tell them the name of the funeral home?  They will take care of everything, don’t you worry.   Oh, no charge for your Thank You, we’re happy to be of service.   (there’s a thousand bucks out the window.  Who talks this much to say thank you?) No, no, it’s okay that you’re crying and unable to string two words together…we understand….we know how to look up phone numbers….there, there, (please, you’re scaring the other customers….)

Now, for better or worse, my chiropractor’s office is within blind stumbling distance of the newspaper office.   I weaved my way there, burst through the door and completely wrecked the quiet, healing atmosphere of the place.  (remember the ‘path of destruction’ phrase?   see now, why I have valid concerns?)

Bless their hearts.   For some reason known only to the Universe, there was not a queue of patients with appointments in the office that precise moment.  I vaguely remember being gently led back to the treatment room.

Extreme Caution Note* For those of you who have lost loved ones to the violent or reckless behavior of others, please do not read the following.   It is part of my analysis of my own healing, but will cause you pain.  Please trust me and just skip to the next section  Look for the Blue All Clear signal.

(Extra warning and space to give you time to look for blue…)

“I just want someone to be angry at and there isn’t anyone…” I hiccuup and wail through my tears.  “Other people have stupid drunks or drug dealers or murderers to vent their anger on.   I don’t have that.”

All Clear – you may continue reading….

“I want someone to blame.   I want to know why.   Barring that, I’ll even take a cat to kick.”  (not really, I can’t bear to see animals hurt… but I was reckless that day…)

Twenty minutes of soothing treatment and soft-spoken words later, I am fit for decent society again.

But somewhere along the line, I had identified a safe target for my anger.

Me.

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Now any fool can tell you that anger turned inward is one of the most destructive things possible.  Simply because, there is only so much space  ‘inward’ and sooner or later, it will overflow into ‘outward’.

And as intolerant as I am of fools, I plowed right ahead anyways.   10 months later, I confide in another that they can just forget trying to talk me out of my own guilt -  I will never, you hear me? Never!  forgive myself for failing in my duty.

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Now, anyone with any experience of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel that was not a train will tell you, Forgiveness is not for the one forgiven – it’s for the peace and well-being of the person who forgives.

On the other hand, when it’s yourself you forgive, then both parties (you and you) receive the blessing.

I had a long talk recently with a family member regarding forgiveness.   We discussed about how some view forgiveness as a “Free Pass to keep doing what you already did” and they are not willing to hand out Free Passes to those who are engaging in behavior they deem detrimental to others.

I can’t speak very knowledgeably about whether that’s true or not.   Heck, according to professionals, I have huge problems with setting boundaries.  I’ve also read  No Boundary by Ken Wilbur – it’s no wonder I argue with myself all the time.

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I also had early training in the concept, “If one person tells you something, it may be true or not.  At 2, still question.  But if everyone around you is pointing out the same thing, then it’s time to take it seriously.”

So this morning, unable to sleep, I’ve thought about guilt and forgiveness.

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On the one hand, I proclaim my belief in an Intelligent Universe, Omnipotent Higher Power and the Heroic Mission of the Soul.

Which means that to blame myself for Morgan’s death is in direct contradiction of my belief system.  (arguing with yourself is also known as “stress and dis-ease”)

On the flip side, if I just skip along, with a “Not my problem, it’s not my job to interfere with another soul’s journey” (aka I’m Not Responsible for the Choices/Actions of Others) la-de-dah Enlightened attitude, I don’t feel comfortable.  “Passing the buck and not taking responsibility” are the frequent internal commentaries made on this course of action.

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I could try the path of “don’t think about it” I’ve observed followed by some around me.

Not a good fit with Who I Am.   Believe me, I’ve tried over the years.   I often PRAY for a blank look and when asked, “What are you thinking” answering “Nothing” in all truthfulness.

Haven’t accomplished it yet and probably never will….

On the bright side, I don’t get asked what I’m thinking very often – the wise know they better be ready for a 30 minute discourse if they ask – therefore, no one cares what I’m thinking.  Makes isolating yourself from the world much easier.

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If you ever want to be held accountable for your beliefs and reminded whenever your actions fail to conform to what you say is true, just share your beliefs with your children.   Best accountability program in existence.

Morgan and I had several round-table discussions regarding the fine line between allowing others to take responsibility for their own reactions to you and behavior I considered blatant mistreatment of others.

“Do what you will, Harm None.” – But there are those walking around just waiting for the opportunity to be offended or hurt.   Yes.  I know.   I have now passed my insanity on.

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Not really.   He wasn’t insane.  He navigated the multiple worlds and belief systems he was exposed to very well, actually.   Better than I have.   Apparently, the sins of the mother are not always passed to the next generation.

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Although I spent a good deal of energy after his departure doing my best to make sure really great silver linings were noticed, appreciated or created out of this whole big, dark cloud (a memorial scholarship, repair of needed relationships and relinquishment of others, really good bonding with and daily appreciation of the son I have left, etc.) in the background, I have been quietly contemplating my own guilt in the whole affair, the unfairness of it all and how there is no possible way any plane of existence could need his presence more than than the one I currently occupy.

I’ve gotten very good at arguing with Morgan, the Universe, myself.  My thoughts and actions are not in tandem.   This is also referred to as ‘incongruity’ or ‘disconnectedness’ by the holistic world.

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Want to hear a good one?   Earlier this year, I embarked in a partnership with another to make a video series about how the stories you tell become the life you live.   My gift to the world.   One of the beautiful creations that came about solely because of the depth and growth of my soul through experiencing pain and loss.  Or so it was touted.

In a very early session, there I was, hair fixed, make-up applied, talking to camera, saying, “Anytime you are arguing with yourself, you’re going to have problems.”

Needless to say, that project got cut short.  How on earth can I tell others ‘how-to’ when I haven’t even figured it out myself?  Oh, I know there are those who make a very good living doing just that, but the secret  is they are oblivious to the fact they haven’t really figured out the end-all “How-To” – ergo, no internal conflict.

I echo Doc Holiday’s (played by Val Kilmer) sentiments, “My hypocrisy only goes so far.”

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In the end, I realize that in order to heal, go forth and have a fruitful life, I’ll have to forgive and forget.

To date, of all the coping mechanisms available, the one that has worked best is, “Every morning when I wake up, I live in the NOW.  I have no past and no future.  I observe and appreciate only what is right in front of me.   I do only what is right in front of me to do.”

This path is Great for inner-peace, comfort and calm.

It really sucks for functioning in the real world, unless you never make dates with friends and only work for people who don’t care when you show up, how long you work, or when you depart.

Living in the Now experiment made my already screwed up time-awareness vanish completely.

Fortunately, the sun and moon still help to remind me whether to return that voice mail call now, or wait awhile, in consideration of others’ sleep schedules. (consideration is, I’ve learned, a symptom of being co-dependent….)

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Another helpful course of action is believing that Morgan was really a super-duper-triple-under-cover agent saving the world and this whole fiasco was part of the undercover “cover”.    Hard to keep that one up, because in order to have shared reality, someone must share it and I haven’t had any takers yet.  Plus, it gets confusing using the word cover that often…

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Door number three for coping is from Roadhouse.  You remember that one?   Sam Elliot and Patrick Swayze.   Scene where Oh Wise and Revered Elder is assisting Young and Foolish One:

“Ya gotta cut it the fuck loose”

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If you’ve survived the world of multiple perspectives and read this far, I guess you know I’m tired of the ill health that is, supposedly, a result of guilt and grief.   So this whole morning’s exercise has been in trying to resolve my disagreements with myself, via talking with myself while pretending to talk to you. (you haven’t forgotten that whole “We Are All One” concept, have you?)

If you’re grieving yourself and in the same predicament, then this morning’s exercise was my feeble attempt to let you know, you’re not alone.

And yes, I believe, somehow, some way we will make it through.

One day, one thought, one agreement or contradiction,  one tear or laugh -  at a time.

Sustainable Home Decor

Last Christmas I was in Hobby Lobby, desperately trying to find something that was:

• Blue and white to match my mother’s kitchen decor
• Either a rooster or a rooster design, also to match said kitchen
• Useful (does something more than collect dust)

As usual, I wondered just how much profit is made by items which I consider to be pure wastes of money.   “Please, let it be pretty AND useful”, is my fervent prayer.  As I wandered through the store, my inner committee was once again debating:

Miss Math: “Well, it HAS to be 300% or more profit, because they always have something marked down by 40%, 50% or 60%.   They can’t do that all the time and stay in business.”

Mr. Grumpy: “Who the heck buys all this useless stuff anyways?”

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Granted, I’m not what you would call a good home decorator or even a passable shopper.   Put me in the farmer’s market, a nursery or second-hand bookstore and I can outshop Paris Hilton.   (She shops, right?   I have to be careful – because there are a lot of current events I’m clueless about – she looks like she spends a lot of time shopping…. and Paris, if you’re reading this, please understand I don’t personally begrudge you your lifestyle and choices – I just needed some point of reference and I thought you would be a good one…)

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Back to my original story.   I did find a blue and white rooster.   That just sat there.   Didn’t hold cream, sugar, salt, tea or recipe cards.   Just sat there and collected dust.   $36 for something that doesn’t do anything except cause more work.

Understand I’m on a time-crunch.   Responsible people give great gifts, on time and Christmas is only days away.   The rooster recipe box I wanted to order online is out of stock until sometime AFTER christmas and by then, what’s the point?   I can’t show up with a gift-wrapped, printed screen capture of the item and it’s “Out of Stock” label; as a good daughter,  I’m not going to make my mom wait til February to have Christmas – Trying to be good and responsible in a culture that places value on the unnecessary can create a lot of stress…

(Oh, I know what’s afoot – they just want me to spend twice what I planned on – my civic duty in keeping our economy going…buy something now and then buy what I really wanted later. Two prices paid for one goal.)

It’s not that I’m against Christmas.   I just think we need to restructure it some.   I tried to talk my family into getting together, sharing a meal and spending the day together.   And then taking the money we would have spent on each other and gift wrap and going shopping at the after-holiday, before inventory counting sales instead.    That way, everyone gets what they really want/need, at a good price, there’s no hurt feelings when someone finds out you either exchanged what you got, or heaven forbid, the ‘perfect gift’ you found Uncle Tom is produced as the white elephant gift next year…..

It would solve a lot of problems, plus, it would give me back what I love about the holidays the most – food, laughter, family stories and the chance to be together, having fun.  I have been unsuccessful so far, but I’m thinking economic troubles may add credence to my plan…

Sorry – back, again, to the story -

In my wanderings around what has become more of a home decorating emporium and less a place for crafters, I saw a beautiful large bound book covered with maps and old time ships.  Aha!   Perfect for my brother.  And it’s on the sale rack.   I pick it up and about throw it through the roof.   Quite a bit lighter than I expected.  Turns out it’s made of material just a shade heavier than poster board.  I turn it over to peek at the price tag.   I’m sure you won’t believe me (I hardly believed it) but here’s what it said:

$40.00

Made In China

If they marked it down to 99% off, I might have been tempted to purchase.   I mean it did have cool graphics.  As it was, there was no way it was worth $40, $20 (sale price) or even $5, at least not to me.  If something has been invented to clean the dust off of poster board that doesn’t stain or ruin it, I’m not aware of it.   And yet, here sits a poster board fake book, at the unbelievable sales price of $20.

I could get a real book about ships at my local bookstore for that.

In an instant,  I could see the business lunch where it all began played out before my mind’s eye:

Foreign CEO1 – “See?  It’s perfect.  Not only are they raised to expect a higher standard of living, but they are convinced that to have a ‘nice home’ you must decorate it.    Extensively.   And you should re-decorate every season or so.   And put out extra decorations for holidays.   And in their culture, it’s a sign of prosperity and abundance if you have lots of expensive useless things sitting around, waiting to be dusted.   If we make them out of posterboard or lightweight ceramics, they will deteriorate or break easily – so they’ll have to be replaced often.  We will make a fortune!”

Foreign CEO2 – “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this opportunity.  What do you think?”

US Politician (who owns controlling stock in an advertising agency and a popular magazine on Lifestyle): “Wellll, it will take some groundwork, but I’m sure we can convince people they really need these things.  If we make regulations and taxes stiff enough at home, they’ll have to be manufactured abroad.  Yes, I think we can make it happen.”

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Okay, I’ll admit, that’s probably not the way it really all came about.    But I couldn’t get that picture out of my mind.

I left without purchasing a single thing.

Back in the car,  I monologued to my husband my disappointment in a craft store becoming a home decor store,  the ever increasing space given to over-priced, non-locally produced junk, which just proves how many people buy this @#!$ because if no one was buying, they wouldn’t keep stocking more of it.   I ranted on about this being an example of why things in this country are going to you-know-where in a handbasket.

This was all received with eye-rolling and the ever-patient commentary, “Why do you let these things upset you?”

Bless his heart for sticking with me and my soapbox.

(Bless mine for not pounding his head with a baseball bat while yelling, “This kind of obliviousness is WHY we’re in a mess….”)

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But that epiphany changed me.   I really got, at a deep cellular level, how much of the idealized American way of life is steeped in the constant consumption of the non-necessities.   Of how our culture of prosperity is, at it’s roots, the accumulation of the not needed.

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I’ve put off doing ‘home decorating’ most of my adult life, for the simple fact that my early attempts proved it’s not one of my natural talents, as well as the fact that while I enjoy pleasant surroundings, I’ve always thought  non-utilitarian goods were way overpriced.

Once married, it got delayed even further, given I’m a native-american-cowboy-wildlife-wood fan and Hubby is a rock-n-roll-technology-black-and-chrome fan.   A visit to our house will show you the initial blending of our two households with very few changes.   AC/DC and Chris LeDoux in concert together,  if you will…  I’m not willing to dust a lot of black household items and not selfish enough to just do it all the way I want it.

But I’m ready now.   I’m going to decorate my house in plants.   The only additional furniture I need buy is perhaps some more shelving units.  Quick, easy, multi-purpose and available from local suppliers.

I can grow the colorful, the edible and the healing.    I can benefit from their air cleaning abilities and they get the benefits of turning from an annual into a perennial.

I can pretend I’m sleeping in nature without enduring the discomforts of no toilet, bear attacks or exposure.  They get to live where they needn’t overcome the trauma of hail damage.

And if it’s really successful, I’m going to start dressing with plants too.   (I think I can weave a mini-skirt out of the potato stalks dead via hail stones….)

If I’m lucky and perform my activities correctly, I shall always have new plants or seeds to replace those who live out their cycle and return to dirt.   I needn’t worry whether they are in style, have re-sale value or need to be upgraded in 6 months or so.  Dusting them is worthwhile because it’s Health Care and Maintenance, not a useless activity designed to make something look good.

I’ll be closer and more aware of  the cycle of life and maybe not so overwhelmed with shock when something dies.

Yup, I’m thinking living in a green house is just the thing to do.

If I find a plant that comes in black and functions as a wireless router, I’m sure Hubby will be on board with my plan too…

Retreat Update

I promised to let you know how the Retreat went.

It was interesting, restful and enlightening.

It also put a magnifying glass on some things I wasn’t even aware of.  Beliefs and behaviors that were not really serving me.  And some realizations that shocked and then strengthened me.

So, all in all, it was a success.

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Oh!  You mean you want details?  Well, alright.

Arrived at the Retreat House about 7 minutes late.   I’m either early or late – I don’t think I’ve ever arrived somewhere perfectly on time – too stressful trying to orchestrate that kind of life.   So far, for the most part, I’ve been forgiven.

Twenty minutes after arriving, I’m on my rump, surrounded by sharp rock landscaping and plucking out the weeds that dared to start growing in this hot, hostile environment.   They don’t look like weeds to me.   Some of them even have pretty little purple flowers, with just a burst of white and yellow on one petal out of five.   I look at all of them.  Sure enough, that same little burst is located on each of them.

How does the flower know which petal to put the colors on?

Why are my eyes green?

Five hours later, I’m walking the path to the abbey chapel, wondering what Vespers is like, if I can manage not to make any faux pas (I’m not Catholic) and surveying the beauty of the landscape around me.

And I want to cry.   I feel it welling up inside of me and just as suddenly, to my shocked amazement, I observe it getting stuffed right back down into some secret place inside of me.   My brain committee is doing it’s usual roundhouse commentary:

Miss Socially Responsible: “If you start, you may not stop and you can’t go into the chapel crying and a mess.”

Mr. Recluse: “What if some one walks by and thinks you’re hurt?   Wait until you’re in a more private place.”

Mrs. Count-Your-Blessings: “What are you crying for?   You’ve got a week of freedom here, in beautiful surroundings.  You should be ashamed of yourself, you ingrate.”

And just as suddenly as the desire came, it was gone… emptiness.   I couldn’t have cried if someone paid me a million bucks.   “That’s odd”, I think.

About five minutes later, my chest hurt so bad I wished I didn’t have to walk the 3/4 of mile back to where my pain pills were.

Eureka!   The emotion/body connection so quickly showed itself when I purposely let go of commitments and responsibilities and focused just on me.

Aha!  All I have to do is cry, until I’m done, and then my chest won’t hurt anymore.

**********

Day Two:   Scrubbing a floor on my hands and knees, because

A.)Haven’t found a mop yet that does the job I want done and

B.)Because what I was asked to do (remove some leftover tape residue with Goo-Be-Gone, wash with warm soapy water and rinse) has highlighted the fact that Mop-n-Glo buildup tends to turn off -white, instead of the original pure white of the tiles.  So nothing to be done but wash the whole durn floor.  I simply can’t leave the white flat stripes amid the Mop-N-Glo shine.

(I do try to clean up the messes I make.)

The Sister in charge of me during my stay finds me on my rump (again) with washcloth, scrub brush, butter knife (for stubborn spills) rinse cloth and bucket.  Her comment?

“Mother Abbess and I are concerned that you are not resting enough.  You came here to heal.” A long  pause.   “God speaks to us in a variety of ways.  Apparently, you must need to work in order to hear.”

She smiles and leaves me to my task.   Uh-oh.   Here come the tears…yes, yes…..awww…..noooo……c’mon!   Just cry!

Nope.   And another running commentary convenes:

Ms. Historian: “Remember the story your grandmother told your mom?   About what a cry baby she was and she prayed that she would never cry again?   And how one day she tried and couldn’t and she prayed to God that she could cry again?   How could you repeat that mistake?”

Ms. Logical: “There’s no one here who will be upset by your tears.   Just let them flow.”

Miss Cheerleader: “You can do It!”

Mr. Negative: “You want me to tell you some sad stories?  Would that help?”

(No, I’m not schizophrenic – I’ve just become VERY observant of my mind chatter.   And it helps me to sift through what’s real and beneficial (and what’s not) if I assign different thoughts to committee members.    Members are appointed anytime I identify chatter that isn’t me, but an echo of  past conditioning – conditioning that may or may not have been in my best interest.

On the flip side, long ago, a friend shared with me an article she read about how people ‘self-medicate’ for different things.   Apparently, smoking helps keep schizophrenic tendencies under control………..and I’m a smoker…………..so, maybe me and my committee members are part of some undiagnosed dilemma…)

I tried.  I honestly did.   And I did manage to squeeze out two or three actual tears.   But by then, it was lunch time and since part of my duties were to  help clean the dining room and wash dishes after meals, I decided it wasn’t the best time to ‘make it happen’.   Besides, I still had days and days left.   There was no rush.

I don’t try walking to the chapel for offices anymore.  A walk to the creek, a stop by the lilac bush that has a few last tender blossoms left and sitting listening to the chaplain’s goats bleat their protest at having to come in from the hills seem to lift up my spirits in a way I haven’t felt for quite awhile.  That’s enough for now.   Plus, I’m enjoying just wandering around.

Not all who wander are lost, so the saying goes.

**********

Day Three:  Morning – I’m getting into a routine.   Weeding in the morning while it’s cool, clean up after breakfast time, read, write, hang out by the creek until lunch.  Clean up after lunch.  Work on floor in retreat hall.   Read, write, nap.   Clean up after supper.   Listen to the birds and creek.   Smell the lilacs every time I walk by.   Watch the moon rise.   Go to bed.   Wait.   Get up and take a pain pill….   Oh, if only I could just cry.

Mid-morning: I’m sitting on the rocks, even plucking out ‘weeds’ that are nestled down below.   IF I do a really good job, then maybe the area won’t have to be weeded for awhile.  And hey, I’m already here, and nobody has complained about me being too slow at my work.   So might as well get them all while I’m at it.

Funny things, weeds.   From this perspective, they look pretty.   How have they grown here?   Short roots meander in and out through sharp rocks.   Once the sun hits this side of the yard, it’s going to be hot, hot, hot.   How do they get their nutrients if their roots aren’t in dirt?    How did the seeds get here?   How did they work past the black weed guard I find at the bottom of the rock pile?  Did they blow in and the warm rocks were just enough to get them started?  How do they dare survive?

And why, on earth, am I ripping up and killing something that has made a life against all odds?  Why must I destroy something just because it dared to grow in the wrong place?

And I finally cry.   Huge globby tears run down my face.   Nasal drainage and no nearby Kleenex are not a good mix.   I’m watering the rock garden all by myself.   Just me and the bitter reminder that young things die too.   And the realization that here, I do have a choice.   I could tell the Sisters I don’t feel morally right about what I’m doing.    They’d probably say, “Okay.”    Or maybe they would think I was crazy.

And I cry harder when I realize I’m mad at the injustice of it all.   That pretty things must be destroyed so we can look neat and prosperous.    That life  that has succeeded against the odds is still fragile and can be destroyed without thought or disregard.

I cry until my eyes are swollen and my head hurts.   But, hey, lookee here… my chest doesn’t hurt as bad.

I’m done weeding for today.  And maybe for always.    I save one pretty purple flower with the white and yellow sunburst.   I tell it I’m sorry.   I put it in my journal.

**********

Day Four: Morning -Apparently I have been stifling the tears quite awhile.  I’m crying about everything now.  In fact, it feels like I’ve been crying since I got here, though I know that isn’t true.  I didn’t think I had enough fluids in me to be disposing of as much as I am.   I drink more water, just in case.

Mid-day – I’m on the bench hidden away on the north side of another retreat hall.   I’m thinking about the allegations of depression.  (me, suffering from, supposedly)   It occurs to me I’m not.   I’m interested in all kinds of things.   There any number of subjects, projects, people and places that interest me…  they just aren’t the same as Before.   I have such a feeling of peace once this realization occurs.

Yes, I’ve changed.   Yes, what I want now and what I like is different.  That doesn’t mean I’m sick, or depressed or “not healing”.

It does mean that I’ve spent two years trying to ‘get back into’ the personality, life and ways of doing/being, that I no longer want.   It means that I have changed, and trying to pretend I haven’t is stressing me out and making me sick.  I vow not to keep trying to recapture the old me, but instead embrace, mold and define my new life.

Will those around me accept this?

Me: “Well, either they will or they won’t, but I can’t keep pretending I’m the same anymore.”

Wow!   I like this committee member.

**********

Evening – Seems Mother Abbess and Sister-in-charge-of-Tamrah have decided to save me from myself.    I’m not to scrub the Retreat Hall floor anymore.   What I’ve gotten done is enough.  It’s the wide swatch right in front of the french doors.

“It looks like it’s been done with Intent.    It’s good enough,”  proclaims she.

Really?   I can’t remember anything ever being good enough, except when I decided I was too tired or too sick to work one more moment.   Hmmm.   Who would have thought?

To be honest,  I really wasn’t enjoying it much, because some local spiders had moseyed in and it took a lot of time and effort to get them onto the butter knife and back outside, alive.    See?  I’m learning.   I didn’t just kill them (though it would have been quicker and easier).

The acrobatics involved in getting spiders back to the place where Humans say they should be, without maiming or killing them, took a lot of energy.   Plus, some of them looked sort of scary.    It’s hard to balance a moving spider on a butter knife flat edge while trying to hold it 3 feet from you.   So, all in all, I was okay with their request that I stop the floor project.

I’ve cut back on the amount of work I do.   I’ve also been informed to wait until those assigned to help me with the dishes arrive, instead of having them all or nearly all done by the time they get there.    I’m not trying to be purposefully disobedient.   But it just drives me to distraction to wait around for help to arrive.   I just start.   And truly, I’m not working hard or fast.   I’m taking my time and enjoying the process.    But, in all fairness, I’ve spent some time working in restaurants.   You get used to a routine and efficiency.   Can’t unlearn that.

It occurs to me that I’ve defined myself as a ‘hard worker’ for so long that I don’t really know how to just do what I’m told and dilly-dally around with a project.    So I purposefully quit working before I get tired and quit pushing myself to ‘hurry up and get things done.”

Ms. I Told You So chimes in: “Boy, will they be sorry when they see the monster they’ve created.   Bet they’ll wish they had left well enough alone and let you work.”

I tell her to shut up, I’m not interested in her opinion.

(She was wrong.   The more I slacked off, the more pleased my hostesses seemed.    Have I been laboring under false information all these years?   Or just under work-aholics expectations?)

**********

Day Five:  Morning.  Yesterday and today, other retreatants arrive.   They aren’t on silent retreat like the other five I’ve spent meal times with the past four days.   They are nice, but I’ve gotten used to not talking to anyone much.    They are also inquisitive.  Who am I, where did I come from, do I come there often.

I think about placing one of the “Silent Retreat” lanyards around my neck.   But I haven’t worn one all week.  (didn’t need to.)   If I do it now, might seem rude.   Besides, I have to go back to the world sometime.   Might as well start practicing regaining my social skills now.

(To those who know me, this is a hoot.   Like belly-laugh, slap-your-knee hoot.    Since the illnesses and deaths the past three years, yes, I can still talk to those I know well and feel safe with.  Words just flow out like a river.    Making ‘small talk’ with others, or conducting myself in a socially acceptable way around those I don’t feel safe with or don’t know well, however, requires a huge amount of energy and stresses me out a great deal.   I don’t really relate to others very well anymore.   And a lot of ‘hot topics’ seem silly to me.   And what I think is really important, doesn’t seem to even be on the radar for most folks.   So, it’s easier to just not talk.)

I try not to be blunt and rude.   I stifle the urge to tell them I’m here to heal, not help others with their problems.  (selfish, I know, but I apparently have a neon sign on my forehead that reads, “Tell Me!  I Care!” that doesn’t have an off switch.)

I finally just nod my head, quote some obscure thought or idea from a book and figure if they think I’m crazy,  they can just think that.  It’s not like I’m going to see them again.

By evening, I’m thinking I can live the rest of my life just making vague quotes that I think are relevant to the story I just heard.   I don’t have to care or be involved.  I can just float in, smile, listen until there is a question or pause, quote something and float right back out of the room.  It’s Working!    Ahhhh….the joy of not having to connect or care.    I could get used to this.

I also realize that I’m really not into spending much energy trying to ‘keep up and maintain a social call’ anymore.    Yup, there’s going to be some streamlining done when I get home.

***********

Day Six:  Guess some of the folks expected at the Retreat House are not coming after all.   By tonight, it will just be me.   I’ll be causing more work than I’m doing.   I’m no longer crying all the time.   The weeding on the South East side is done.   The floor is done, with Intent.   I feel pretty peaceful and quiet.   I’m ready to go.

I help clean the retreat house and rooms used this past week.   I thank Sister-in-charge-of-me for all her insights, assistance and support.   Haven’t shared all that has happened… Still, she smiles broadly and informs another that I have ‘had a revelation’.  Is it that obvious?   Guess so.

Thank you St. Benedict, Sisters and the Universe.  Thanks for the space and grace for me to cry, give up killing myself to make a point and quietly examine my committee members.

And I saved my greatest realization for the last:

In my effort to put to good use all the wonderful theories I’ve been exposed to in the past years, regarding change, loss and inner peace, I kept trying to give thanks and gratitude for all in my life – tried to always see and share with others the good that came out of my losses.  I visited then tried to overcome my feelings of bitterness, anger and resentment at lost loved ones, unfair dealings and hurtful actions of others.

I looked for and found the strength I needed to do what needed to be done and thanked the Universe for that Strength.

But I never once asked for a quiet spot to cry, until I could cry no more.

Now, I know better.

Healing Hearts with Walls

Lynne McTaggart discussed the benefits of gated/walled communities recently in her blog.  Her research indicates that Neighborhood Watch organizations are more effective at reducing crime than walled/gated communities with security.

The most interesting portion of this story was the following:

“I was speaking with a translator I had once in the Middle East, a young woman called ‘Nour’.  When she was growing up, she says, the residential areas outside the country were grouped into small villages.  The villagers tend to live in 200-year old buildings of rough concrete and blockwork, passed down from many generations, and deliberately left unpainted.

The idea is to avoid ostentation precisely so that you do not ‘break your neighbors’ hearts’, she told me, by making them feel envious or bad about themselves:  the beauty of your house is created within  — in the warmth you have inside.

Unfortunately, this custom is given way to creeping westernization, and new homes are now built with showy exteriors.”

Interestingly, this story came to me right on the heels of my wish for solitude and isolation – my desire for some kind of physical representation of walls to shield me from the daily hurts of the world.

I’m counting down the days until my retreat at the abbey begins.  Now I’m wondering if perhaps I should have formed a Neighborhood Heal Tamrah group – given the statistics.  (oh, I do love looking to history to see what works and what doesn’t…..)

But the thought of a support group or retreat where you ‘talk through, tap through or tell your story over and over until it doesn’t hurt anymore’ sounds more like an exercise equivalent to climbing Mt. Everest in nothing but a bikini… something I have no desire to do.   (hypothermia aside, I just haven’t worked up the nerve to publicly display my over 40, child bearing physique in skimpy clothing……and you just know the news crews would happen to be there………..)

So I think I’ll stick to my original plan.

********************

As a society, it seems we aren’t as careful with our broken hearts as we are with broken bones.   If we break a leg, we set it, slap a cast on it, protect it from additional hurts and keep our weight off it.

A broken heart isn’t supposed to interfere with getting up, making breakfast, seeing to the needs of those around you and making your cheerful way out into the world to interact with the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

On the flip side, a broken leg is usually good for at least a day or two of isolation in your home and the attentive ‘fetch and carry’ support of your family.

For some reason I’ve never understood, broken hearts take longer to heal than broken bones.   So, not only is there not as much medical support available to heal broken hearts, there also isn’t a very reliable time line.   If my broken heart isn’t healed within 6 weeks, does it need surgery?   We can’t very well re-break it and set it right.   How do you ’set’ a broken heart anyways?   How do you provide a cast for it?   How do you know when it’s healed enough to put to regular use again?

********************

I consider myself a pretty logical person of reason, even though math and science are not my strong points.  But I also know both through observation of myself and the (sometimes unsolicited) feedback of others that ‘my heart tends to rule my head’.   And it’s true.   Although I may spend an enormous amount of brain energy on a project or solution, I only begin the journey because my heart yearned to improve something or make things better for another.   So if what is ‘broken’ is to be lightly used and given a vacation for awhile, how does a heart-driven person manage to heal and still live their life?  Honestly, inquiring minds want to know!

********************

I’ve also found plenty of time to analyze another seemingly inconsistency in the healing process for hearts – when you’re in the depths of grief and depression, it’s hard to truly hear/see/experience the support, optimism and positive folks and events around you.  One friend described it as being lost in a house of circus mirrors – you look all around you, but all you see is the distorted and ugly.

During my journey through grief there have been times when those around me put great effort into offering me their best, which for various reasons, hurt more than it helped.   Not all their fault, but I just can’t find the compassion and selflessness to keep showing up for it either!

********************

So soon I’ll shall seek respite and sanctuary, provide the cast to buffer further injury and partake in soul food for the majority of the day, while working in contemplative silence the rest (I know, those who know me are getting a big hoot out of me doing anything quietly, but I shall faithfully report my success or failure on this point when I return……….).

I am again reminded of the poem by Robert Browning Hamilton that I read at Morgan’s funeral, “Along the Road”:

“I walked a mile with Pleasure,

She chattered all the way,

But left me none the wiser,

For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow,

And ne’er a word said she:

But oh, the things I learned from her,

When Sorrow walked with me.”

Ah, the trials of being a ‘life-long learner’ personality……………….

Retreat Update here.

“Retreat!”

These past weeks I’ve often envisioned Yosemite Sam, yelling “Retreat!”  You remember that cartoon, don’t you?

Sam charges towards Bugs Bunny’s fort – Bugs calmly swings open the door at the last minute and Sam runs smack down the barrel of a large gunnery cannon.   He stops…He looks…He realizes……”Retreat!” and runs back the way he came, managing to just barely escape the end of the cannon before being blasted into a little black, charred, beardless  Hessian.

(Hey, I still watch cartoons – and you cannot tell me that the new Batman or Captain Planet or any of these modern ones are ‘less violent’ – Bugs Bunny Forever, says I!)

For various reasons, both known and unknown to me, I have struggled more this year than last over the death of my son.   Lost to bacterial meningitis shortly after graduating from high school, he slipped away from us just 4 short days before his 18th birthday.

As I write this, I have just made it through the day that should have been his 20th birthday.    I should have been making a cake, fixing a BBQ and saying, “Nope, no beer until next year.”

(For those of you not familiar with my previous comments regarding ’shoulds’ I will tell you the above sentence is a prime example of “shoulding on myself” – if you’re confused, say it out loud and you’ll see why ’shoulds’ are not the best thing to engage in…..)

Instead, I did my best not to mope and cry uncontrollably around my youngest son, who will turn 12 in a couple of days.   (For some reason, the Universe decided I was only to be fertile sometime around September – my boys were born 8 years and 3 days apart…… the two I lost would have been born in June too.)

Because I’ve been struggling more lately and seem to have taken a detour in my healing, I’ve often fantasized about escape.

Winning Powerball, building a fence enclosed fortress somewhere in the middle of nowhere with provisions stocked for 2 or 3 years.   No phone, no email, no one to cope with except hubby and son.   No need to be witty, capable of engaging in intelligent conversation.   No call to be nice to others when I’m not feeling nice…………..ahhhhh, don’t I just wish.

But after several years of faithful purchase, I’ve decided my son was probably right – I’m more likely to be struck by lightening 5 times in one day than I am to win Powerball (which means, I do still have a chance………………)

And then it was suggested I go on retreat.   Perhaps to a monastery or abbey?   And the longer the idea-man talked, the better it sounded.

The main attraction was that I have threatened the males in my house with ‘running away to live with the nuns’ for years, anytime I felt like dirty socks were  purposely being thrown on the floor, just to watch me pick them up and take to the laundry.    So, having threatened this action for so long, I was intrigued with the possibility of actually getting to make good on my threats.

I’m also a big Brother Cadfael fan, that wonderful monk created by author Ellis Peters – an aging crusader who came to the monastery late in life and always manages to solve the murder mystery, help the young in-love couple get together and heal a few people with herbs while he’s at it, all the while both outwitting and maintaining a great friendship with the local Sheriff.   What’s not to love?

How I’ve often wished Brother Cadfael was real and that I could visit him and talk with him.  Ellis Peters once said in an interview that writing Brother Cadfael made her a better person.   I can believe it.   He’s my hero.

I also don’t do well with meditation practices.   I can, however, immerse myself in some mundane task and contemplate the mysteries of the world and my connection with the divine quite readily.  So as the idea was suggested to me, I could already see myself regaining my peace and inner tranquility while scrubbing a stone floor on my hands and knees.  (yes, I know, I’m losing it…..)

Some scenes from Sound of Music and Sister Act briefly flitted through my head, but since I can’t sing as well as Julie Andrews or dance as well as Whoopi, I quickly let go of those fantasies…………….

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The yearning with which I’ve envisioned escape has surprised me.   Until recently, I felt like I was dealing with illnesses, deaths and my own health problems pretty well.   Just how or why I got to this place of deep grief again, I could not tell you.

It is both maddening and enlightening to know that no matter how much you read, research and learn about taking care of yourself, things can still sneak up on you when you aren’t expecting it.

*****************************

It’s not that my everyday life is hard.   I currently do not work for anyone else, so my schedule is pretty well my own.   My hubby and son aren’t complete slobs and they pitch in and help around the house if I’ve decided to start more projects in the morning than I can possibly get done by nightfall.

I figure a lot of people would look at my life and wonder what the heck I had to be down about.   And they would be right.

But that realization hasn’t changed how I’m feeling right now.

And so, I have requested and been granted sanctuary at an abbey for 10 glorious days while son and hubby are away at school and camp and won’t be around to miss me being gone, anyways.

No cell phone, no email or websites to maintain.  No trying to figure out how to design a new database.

I’m taking my embroidery, some books and stuff to make sprouted wheat bread for the nuns.   My gift for them.

In return, they’ve agreed to give me a bed to sleep on, food to eat, and the opportunity to join their prayer schedule.   I will also be given work to do.   I don’t have to figure out what the most efficient way to do the work is, or prioritize or manage or be inspired and creative.  I just have to show up and do what I’m told.   What a relief.

For a time, I’m going to retreat from the responsibilities of the gifts I have received…. a loving husband and son, friends and family, customers.    I’m going to go where there is a schedule that tells me when to sleep, when to eat and when to commune with the Universe.   I’m choosing to retreat from the world of choices and decisions.

In the military world, Retreat is not often seen as a positive way of dealing the possibility of defeat.   Yes, there’s the saying, “Run away, live to fight another day” but I think the “With your shield or on it” is the more favored, popular one.

It is also interesting to me that in many literary works regarding ‘joining the convent’, a young applicant is counseled, “These walls are to be entered to embrace the life within, not to shut the world out.”

But, whatever the case may be, my wounds are sore and oozing, they ache from too many pokes and prods from my daily routine.   So carrying what shred of a shield I have left, I shall enter into the walls, not asking to leave the world, only that it be kept at bay while I heal and repair my shield.

Rest assured I shall return with it.