Category Archives: Uncategorized

Sep18

A melting ice cube…

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I remain in love with a road trip. Not just the destination, no, the road trip. Yesterday was a rare opportunity for me to have a solo one; Jeff and I had been in North Carolina for two weeks, and he flew from there to Philly on business while I had the luggage and the Fruck (the Fake-Truck, as we call the white Honda Ridgeline we recently leased) to bring home to Ohio. I had visions of loud music and an open sunroof, but alas, Mother Nature had other plans. I had cool temps, dense fog, and full-on rain through much of North Carolina, Virginia, and West Virginia. For once, it was Ohio weather boasting the sun and warmth, so my last two hours were the breezy and loud ones. The front end of the trip, though, was spent catching up on podcasts.

First, I listened to an episode of The Modern Yoga Podcast, of which I am a co-star (you’re laughing, right?) or more accurately, regular co-host…this was the episode I missed because I had four inches of water in my old basement on the morning of the recording. Next in line was Jesus Calling, an episode in which Dr. Esau McCaulley passionately reminded that every single life, the life of every criminal and addict and idiot, as long as it’s still going on, has the chance to be something beautiful AND more importantly, that’s how we need to look at each other. To not see someone as a lost cause, ever. And to know that our own successes are not simply the result of our own talents and work, but of Providence. My favorite quote was “we owe each other ATTENTION.” Before you can help someone, you have to SEE them. Not the thousand mile stare we give the homeless (all paraphrased). Every single human life matters, but we only listen to the stories that end with our definition of success. Those are all his words, not mine, and they’re simple ones. Platitudes we all know by heart, but for me, that’s what’s good about a road trip. Listening. A lone drive, the solitude of experiencing the weather, knowing what the fog is shrouding on the winding West Virginia turnpike, but having no agenda besides listening. Fertile soil for the seeds to grow.

On our Modern Yoga Podcast, Joyce Fijalkovich Atherton and I often remark how a teacher’s cue in a yoga class can be repeated dozens of times in a hundred ways, in different classes by varied instructors. But then suddenly, something lands differently and the experience, the pose, the breath, becomes a puzzle piece that fits for the first time. A light bulb moment, an epiphany, an A-Ha…we call it many things. That’s how I felt about the next podcast in my traveling lineup. Looking at the episode list for the Mel Robbins Podcast, my eye was caught by “If You Only Listen to One Podcast Today…” — okay, sold! Here was the golden nugget (referring to how we–certainly I!–often move the same goal to the NEXT year’s resolution list over and over again): “your life is a melting ice cube.” Yeah, we know all of those platitudes too, but this time? To visualize a melting ice cube, and there ain’t no ice cube tray or ice dispenser…just the melting ice cube, ’til its a puddle of water. Quotes like “No one gives a shit about what you do” and “you’re the one in your way” supported the visual.

It’s really not my intention here to advertise podcasts. But yesterday’s lessons were this morning’s breakfast, so yes I will spend a very few minutes (which is all it takes to turn the figurative steering wheel) writing.

And also, the actual physical exercising/muscle building that appears on each year’s resolution list. Because, despite never having achieved my best body, it’s now melting literally and figuratively and this old lady’s concern has shifted to health and mobility.

Looks like maybe the drive brought the drive. For this one day, anyway.

See ya!

Jul27

Elaine

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Last week, we had not one, but two memorials to attend. Not just to “attend,” but to participate in because they celebrated the lives of such significant and beloved humans. My age, which is not so advanced at 54, allows an ever-increasing number of these losses. Which makes perfect sense, of course, but that doesn’t make a single thing about letting go of people you love easier. Tim and Elaine. As far as I know, mostly unbeknownst to each other, even though we all know we’ve got a Kevin Bacon thing going on with almost everyone. Elaine passed away just three days after Tim, so this latter post will be about her.

It was ten years ago this month that we lost Hap, my dad, a loss that I have written about numerous times, but it was at exactly that time when Elaine reentered our lives. On purpose. A lot of people showed up for us when we lost Hap. Most didn’t know what to say or do, and of course–there was nothing to say or do. But Elaine found something to do.

She’s not “mine” to talk about, which is why I haven’t written or posted anything yet about her passing. I don’t know her children well enough to share any news on their behalf about their mother. But this is what I do, write/talk/share to process, and no one has to read it anyway. But I have an ever-present fear that I will forget things, or that others will. And I don’t ever want to forget–or to be unable to conjure the memories.

I first met Elaine when I was only about five or six years old. Even from that long ago, my impression of her is strong because she was so pretty. Sounds shallow, maybe, but to a young child, all moms look like moms. Elaine had a unique, attractive energy about her. Her daughter Lisa and my sister Judy were classmates and friends, and that’s the context of my exposure to Elaine. I remember her pretty smile, the way she spoke to me as if I was just another person worthy of conversation rather than the incidental Kindergartener. I remember her dog, Raindrop. She was social, I got that about her before I knew what the word meant. And as a child, I felt singularly unintimidated by her adulthood. She was a tall woman, not unlike the woman I would grow up to be. Stylish hair and clothes, broad hands and tan feet. Wearing jewelry. These are the details I recall as I see her in our driveway in the 1970’s in my mind’s eye.

At some point during our childhoods, Elaine’s family moved a suburb over, and I know that my parents socialized or saw her at various locales and events over the years. However long it had been, greeting cards would still come in the mailbox for big occasions from Elaine, and she was always on the invite list for our family showers, weddings, anniversary parties…

Ten years ago when Hap died, Elaine was a single woman still living just minutes away from us, still in touch as much or as little as anyone else was with my mom. I’m sure, although I have no recollection, that she showed up at the visitation and/or funeral for my dad. I’m certain she sent cards…plural. And clearly she called or otherwise “checked in” with my mom, Dolores.

When my dad passed away, he had been in a nursing home and we had really lost him in the two years leading up to his death to the harrowing Lewy Body dementia. So although we grieved, our grief had already been in process and his death was a release from an earthly body and mind that he had well outgrown. We were sad, but not in shock or traumatized by his passing. But because of his disease, each of us had spent a great deal of our time with him; his death left quite a literal void in the daily schedule, mostly for our mom.

It wasn’t long after Hap died that my mom came to my sisters and me saying, “Elaine has invited me to go to Florida for a month or two this winter.”

I think Coleen, Judy and I all thought it was a grand idea, but my mom had never gone anywhere without our dad. They were not the couple who had separate trips of any kind, and they loved their travel together or with the rest of us as a family. I was truly surprised to hear Dolores finish the conversation by saying, “…and I think I’d like to say yes.”

Thus began a renewal of friendship that has helped sustain my mom through her widowhood this past decade. Elaine was not widowed; she didn’t pretend to know what my mom might be going through. She just knew that they both liked each other, and shopping, and cute shoes, and eating lunch, among many other things. Turns out, they were completely compatible winter travelers despite one being an early bird (Elaine) and one being a sleeper-inner (Dolores.) That first winter and every one after that (with the exception of the global pandemic travel interruption) they rented condos in various Florida locations for four or six weeks. They made vodka and tonics in the evenings and they drove their rental car onto the beaches where they set up a chair and talked. They bought groceries and had their breakfasts and coffee at home, and they hung out at the pool. They rented movies and went out to dinners sometimes. I wish they’d gone out even more, and not worried about the cost! My mom was the driver and Elaine, the navigator and copilot. They found flea markets and fish fries and sometimes bought so much that another bag was needed on the return trip home in March. They complemented each other well on those trips. I must admit that I came to enjoy picking Elaine and her suitcases up on an icy January morning before dawn to deliver the two of them to the airport, and likewise for the March airport pickup, when the weather wasn’t any better yet than when they departed.

But it didn’t end there, with the winters away. Elaine became the friend who would invite Dolores to the local outdoor pavilion band concert, to the senior club lunch, to the free dinner that came with a community center talk on finances. It is Elaine who suggested that they pick up lunch or pack snacks and open their portable chairs to sit and watch people like me kayak or paddleboard on Coe Lake. I didn’t realize until it was already happening how valuable Elaine’s invitations were. What would my mom have done with so much extra time on her hands if not for these invitations?

My mom’s best friend of over 55 years, Ellie, was always in the picture, and since they were widowed within a year of each other, they leaned heavily on each other. We’ve always done holidays together with Ellie’s family, our family, and they did weekend Mass and dinner or breakfast together, so it seemed a natural progression to put all of these “golden girls” together. At some point I started referring to them that way, along with Ellie’s son in law’s mom Lois (it sounds reductive to me to even explain these relationships because they are simply all “family.”)

It’s no secret that I have not worked a “real” job more than a decade now, so it felt incumbent upon me to plan the occasional fun outing with my Golden Girls. We started with annual Dyngus Day, the day after Easter, a street festival celebration in Cleveland with Polish food and beer, pierogies, and plenty of polka music. Eventually, the ladies sported matching shirts for this yearly event. We’ve driven to look at Christmas lights, a farmer’s market for fall cider, even an afternoon on a rented pontoon boat. During all these times, the most enjoyable part of the date was hearing the ladies talk about old times…old Cleveland buildings where they had worked, danced, shopped. Where they lived, how they met their husbands, the kind of food their mothers made for dinner. After each outing, I would receive an email from Elaine, or a thank you card, a box of chocolates or even a wrapped gift. More often that not, all of the above. She shared a birthday with my husband and never forgot to wish him a happy one.

These outings won’t stop now in Elaine’s absence; in fact, they began before she was part of them. Even though she was the second eldest of the crew, I didn’t expect she’d be the first we’d lose. She was not frail and didn’t act old. She may have had struggles like knee pain and diminishing eyesight, but she remained enthusiastic and charming in her pursuit of her days’ endeavors. She lit up talking about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, one or two of which were brand new at the time of her death.

A couple of weeks ago, she and my mom attended their usual chair yoga class together. Later that day, Elaine took herself to the doctor, where it was discovered that she was experiencing heart arrhythmia. She was transferred to the hospital where she had a suspected mild stroke, but was doing well enough to not only visit with family, but to compliment and make friends with the staff. A couple of days later, still in the hospital, she experienced a more catastrophic event that she could not recover from. Thankfully, hospice was her next stop. My mom and I were able to visit her there, as she slumbered peacefully with her beloved family around her, filling her ears and heart with the love she had passed around for years.

As I type this, my mom is out “bopping,” as she calls it, after her hair appointment. Last night, she went to an ice cream social at her church. I know there’s an Elaine-shaped hole in her heart and in her days, but she’s trying, and I’m proud of her for it. If not for Elaine’s intervention a decade ago, Dolores might be a much older version of the woman she is today. Maybe less independent, maybe less fun. A guest on The Modern Yoga Podcast recently spoke about “watering your friends, rather than watering your friends’ plants,” and I can’t think of a better description of Elaine’s friendship. When my mom needed nurturing, “watering,” Elaine didn’t just ask if we needed anything. She showed up, without expectation or pressure.

I’m so grateful she was still independently living the fullness of life right up until the day of her hospitalization. One of God’s angels on earth, and I know she will keep watering her loved ones from a higher ground now. As the saying goes, we are all just walking each other home. What a blessing Elaine has been as a companion.

https://obits.cleveland.com/us/obituaries/cleveland/name/elaine-gommel-obituary?id=52423333

Jul27

Tim

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This month, we had not one, but two memorials to attend. Not just to “attend,” but to participate in because they celebrated the lives of such significant and beloved humans. My age, which is not so advanced at 54, allows an ever-increasing number of these losses. Which makes perfect sense, of course, but that doesn’t make a single thing about letting go of people you love easier. Tim and Elaine. As far as I know, mostly unbeknownst to each other, even though we all know we’ve got a Kevin Bacon thing going on with almost everyone. Tim passed away just three days before Elaine, so this first post will be about him.

It was ten years ago this month that we lost Hap, my dad, a loss that I have written about numerous times, but what strikes me now on the upcoming big milestone anniversary of his death is the memory of what Tim said. A lot of people said a lot of stuff; the fact that something stuck means something.

Tim, my mother-in-law’s baby brother, exclaimed to me about my dad, “Now he sees! And is SEEN!” with a huge smile on his face. He made me realize how exciting and welcome my dad’s passing really was, viewed through the lens of our shared beliefs and considering the demolishing dementia that was his end to this life on earth.

Tim was quintessentially Irish, with a constant sparkle in his eye (sometimes a devious one) and a wry humor. He was an unbelievably interesting and eloquent extemporaneous speaker and teacher, and I’ve had conversations with him about everything from recorder music to granola. He loved to read and to share or gift books. He was incredibly intelligent, but also innocent as a wide-eyed child about some of the pursuits of our modern world. His thoughts were so profound, his insights so remarkable, yet he still had the best sense of humor. One that ran the spectrum between a Kindergartener and the most highbrow imaginable. He met a Pope. He put a spoonful of his hot coffee on his vanilla ice cream. He never flew without a sport coat, even if it was paired with his ancient wide-wale corduroys. Even so, he looked scholarly with his haircut and fashionable glasses. He didn’t understand the need for hummus (we disagreed on that, as we did on his high regard for Dave Matthews’ music) but he liked Fritos, when I saved him any. Just last January, he and the usual annual Flamingo Open foursome golfed their 36 holes a day, despite what was already raging inside Tim’s physical body and his age, 75.

It seems ridiculous to even note his age, because he didn’t even seem to be much over 60 at best. He was clever and fun, a humble and self-effacing jokester. A complete gentleman at heart, on the golf course or at the dinner table. He knew so many important and even esoteric things, yet was always truly curious about what the person next to him was into. He loved his hometown, but even more so the place that became his hometown as an adult. He probably wasn’t the perfect brother to his two sisters, although I think if you asked them that today they would say that he was. He had lifelong friendships, and the most sacred of those with his beloved bestie Ray, who delivered just the right remarks at his Memorial. It’s not very long, and while it’s available you can check it out here: (fast forward to 1:49:00) https://livestream.com/accounts/18862485/events/5598269/videos/236828741

Maybe he wasn’t perfect. I’ve seen Tim with a cigarette, and with a Scotch. I may have even heard him utter a profanity. He (barely) tolerated the chatter of our granddaughter or the spinning and barking of the family pets. Most would rarely detect any of that underlying impatience or annoyance though, even as he blessed babies and pets from the altar.

Yes, from the altar. I guess I didn’t mention that Tim decided as a grown man to become a Catholic priest. I’ve known countless priests–Catholic school since Kindergarten, first job was at the rectory, my grandmother was our parish cook and housekeeper–and yet even the most talented and kind of them could not translate the love of Jesus to other humans like Tim Horan could. I want to print and bottle and share almost everything he ever said. During the early pandemic, when Mass was an online-only event, my mom, Dolores, got into the habit of watching Fr. Tim broadcast from Holy Trinity Parish in Webster, New York. What an unexpected Covid silver lining, that we spent even more “time” with him than we would have otherwise. Time ended up being too short. We want more, more laughs, more words and wisdom, more golf. More of those fancy Christmas ornaments he used to give us, and more eyerolls. It is an impossible task to attempt to do him justice in words. I can’t even think of Tim’s face without it bringing me a smile, as I almost never saw him without one. I can only imagine his delight now; he sees, and is seen!

Fr. Timothy Horan; 75; former Holy Trinity pastor

Jun18

The Best Worst Hour

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(2012?)

The best, worst hour of every day is the hour (or two, but that just doesn’t sound as catchy, now does it?) that I visit my dad, especially now.  Initially, it was many hours at a time, unless it was a hospital behavior ward which limited the visits to one or two hours.  But back in those days, whether it was one hour or several, things were more “worst” than “best” for sure.  There was nothing to be grateful for at that time, other than the fact that my dad was safe.  It was too soon to smile about memories and be grateful for all that he had been.  We were still in the thick of it, losing him while he fought us and was angry with us for letting him be sick.  I don’t know when he let go, I don’t know when he knew how much and what was drug-induced and what wasn’t.  

My mom still has a telephone message on her voicemail from him from three months in, around September, when he was maybe in one of the hospitals or else early on at Manor Care North Olmsted.  She played it for me yesterday, and in it he sounded so sweet.  He asked how she was feeling, noting that he hadn’t been feeling great, and that he didn’t have his phone (he would ask the nurse’s station to call my mom for him in the early days) but that she should try to get ahold of him whenever she could.  It’s a mystery to me when he might have left this, because she was simply there almost all of the time.  I had a message saved on my voicemail too, from October.  I received it while Jeff and Mom and I were in Florida, packing up their now sold retirement home – another emotional story for a different chapter.  In the message to me, he was agitated because he somehow had the idea (he would wake up with these ideas, probably from dreams but then didn’t make the distinction between dream and reality – either that or he just flat out hallucinated it) that my mom was angry with him, accusing him of seeing another woman. He wanted to impress upon me that of course that was absolutely not true, there was no other woman, and would I please convince her of that?  When I switched from a Blackberry to my IPhone, I was told the message could not be saved.  I was initially very upset, but I know that it already wasn’t my dad, and while I would love to have his voice with me always, it really IS in my head. I’m sure I won’t always be able to hear it, but that’s the nature of things.  

It is so hard to describe his early illness and nursing home “incarceration” because he was still very much Hap, and yes fought us on things.  But at the same time, his fight wasn’t convincing because while he knew who all of us were and that he was mad at us, he also thought concurrently that he was on a cruise ship or at the office.  So you see, we really did have to do what we were doing, and never know who/what you’d get when you went to visit.  

I’m going to go back to the past later, but for a different perspective, let’s talk about today since it is fresh in my mind.  It was a completely uneventful visit, but still pertinent to the subject of “the best hour, the worst hour” of my day.  Parking your car at the nursing home is never a fun thing – what’s next, you know, is to walk into a place that is familiar, too familiar, but unfamiliar as well.  You don’t want it to be familiar, it’s for other people.  The anxiety grips you as you walk towards the door, because you  know what kind of smells are going to hit you when you enter, and that there will probably be at least one person hanging out in a wheelchair, looking like nothing you’ve ever wanted to allow into your life. Maybe they are just literally hanging there, belted in.  Their head is probably lolling to one side, perhaps they are drooling.  Perhaps they can say hello to you, but many times they cannot.  Now that you’re “a regular,” the sight of such a person no longer disturbs you and you smile and greet them by name.  That’s part of the paradox of the best/worst.  It never gets less gross, disgusting, inhumane, or horrifying.  Yet you embrace all of those things, and the people to whom they are happening, with compassion.  You don’t notice that Bob’s hair is always greasy and never combed and that he spits when he talks.  You don’t care that the food is all over the faces and down the fronts when you are in the dining room with the others.  You don’t balk at seeing the top of the diaper out of someone’s pants, or people without their teeth.  You stop noticing the damaged toenails of the diabetics or the nose-picking of the guy with the really long fingernails that no one ever seems to cut.  They are beautiful and you come to love them for what you know they must have been once.  You see your own mortality, frailty, and probable future, and you have compassion.

But before that, let’s be honest, it sucks.  Today, I went at lunch time, and my dad was already seated at “his spot” in the dining room, by the window.  He had been shaved, which is always a plus – because he looks like my daddy again, clean-shaven, beautiful skin.  To see him look disheveled, although it is common now, is nothing like the dad I knew (unless we’re talking early morning before the shower – then that white hair was wild!).  Now, though, showers are about every three days in the nursing home.  That part is done by the aides, so we get to ignore or forget what exactly that process looks like.  Does my dad just sit there on the shower chair?  Does he participate, or let them do all of the work?  Is he ever “with it” enough to be embarrassed  any  more?  He made a comment to my mom once at the Manor, pointing out a giant FEMALE aide, and telling my mom “she gives such a good shower!”  If that’s not proof my dad was ‘gone’, I don’t know what was.  The man was ridiculously modest, especially around women.  I can’t say that enough times or with enough emphasis.  So, today, my dad was clean shaven, hair combed back, and that made him look good. He was also sitting up straight, which helps the illusion of health also;  some days, he is leaning over to the left, drooling and with one arm draped over the wheelchair.  He matched today, thanks to whomever took care of him.  His sweatpants and sweatshirt matched or complemented each other, which is always a toss up.  

You may think that we are uninvolved, that we could demand he be put in a particular outfit every day, that he doesn’t like this, doesn’t like that – but we found out fairly early on that most of those type of demands aren’t for the patient, if we’re being honest.  They are for the family, so it doesn’t hurt so bad.  Dad has no idea if he matches, and no one there does, either.  Earlier at the Manor, if his shirt was inside out or something didn’t match well, we might mention it or try to fix it for him.  All this did was to confuse my dad.  It was to make US feel better, not him.  Because he felt just fine with it backwards or whatever.  That’s part of the learning process for us – the prettier nursing home (which couldn’t keep him locked in), the demands on what he wears and eats (which he no longer has a clue about) and things like phones and television remotes (which he loses, or adds to his hallucinations, or throws), and even the photos and calendars and mementos we have placed all around him in his room, are for US.  He lives in a very particular world, and those things do not matter.  In fact, they interfere.  

Today, his appearance made me say “hey, good lookin’!”  And I leaned over him to give him a hug.  He hugged back, which he doesn’t often do, and he smiled.  He seemed strong today, awake and aware.  Not aware he has dementia and is in a nursing home, but more aware that it is daytime, I am sitting with him, and that he should pick up his fork and eat lunch.  Other days he looks vacant, hazy, or has his eyes closed even as he mumbles as if we are speaking .  Still other days he “answers” someone calling to him a few feet away, a hallucination.  Some days, he needs help eating, having no idea or no desire to engage with the food, or because in his mind, he is in a different reality.  He will treat his napkin like a form and his finger like a pen and begin working, despite the plate of food in his way.  But today, he was pretty good.  He burped, and then laughed.  A return to being a baby, is how I look at it.  He looked at me sheepishly, and I told him he was just cracking himself up, that all men were seventh grade boys at heart.  He liked that, and he laughed and looked at me.  

Nowadays, those are the days that make me cry.  When my dad smiles, not a polite smile for someone else but a smile because he is chuckling at something, there is nothing in the world that is more beautiful for me to see.  He was always such a good looking man, and smiling was such a part of him.  When he smiles at me, with those blue eyes and beautiful face, I miss my dad.  Those few times are glimpses into the happy, Happy man that he was.  And happy for Happy was a deliberate choice.  He was filled with natural optimism and glee, but he just refused to be anything but happy, no matter what the situation.  And I love him for that, and I embrace that lesson from him, but oh, how fast the tears come, though I’m smiling through them, when he smiles at me.  Then I hug him, and kiss him.  

The meal is always a variable, too.  Today, he was drinking okay by himself from a normal cup.  I keep meaning to take a milkshake to ascertain whether or not he can still drink out of a straw, in case it comes to that.  Because more and more he is having trouble with the mechanics, and the brain command to DO the mechanics, of eating and drinking.  Sometimes, he forgets in mid meal after he was just doing decently.  Often while drinking, once the glass is half empty (yes, yes I know Hap would say half-full) he holds it to his lips but can’t get any.  I have to remind him, tip your head back, dad… and so far, that helps and he is able to get the rest out.  As for the solids, well, it’s a mess.  He probably can’t really use both hands with a knife and fork, so he uses one hand or the other and a fork or spoon to feed himself.  Today, he began with his jello (that’s another thing I refuse to correct – I am gonna let that man eat dessert first!) and yes, it is messy.  They usually put a giant sized bib on all the residents, which early on seemed so wrong for my dad and he often didn’t use it, but his skills have deteriorated so it IS useful – but I don’t think he is any more aware of what it is or that someone placed it on him than he knows what day today is.  Since he had used his spoon with the jello, he dug in to the green beans with it next. That didn’t work as well, so I suggested the fork.  But until I replaced the spoon with the fork in his hand myself, he did not make the change.  And so, it is messy, but I don’t help him unless he physically will not feed himself.  I figure, the longer he can do something, we should encourage him to do it, if for no other reason than to give him something to do in a long, long day of sameness.  But again – that’s me talking.  His day may seem full and exhausting to him, and in fact I don’t think his day is a day at all.  I think he cycles in about three hour increments.  There are days he is fabulous at lunch and terrible at dinner, and days that mom comes home saddened because he seemed so bad at lunch, but when I go for dinner he is a new man.  Such is this disease – whatever it is.    

Now that my dad is more ill, and he is safe and cared for, and my mom is doing decently and is healthy, I have the luxury of feeling like these are not the worst of times. That enables me to have the best hour of the day with my dad, too.  While he may be concentrating on his green beans, I can be nostalgic and remember who he was.  And while, of course, I didn’t love him enough or thank him enough when I should have, I can now sing to him, songs I know he used to like, like Donna Wells “Happiest Girl in the Whole USA” or “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden” by Lynn Anderson, or old country classics or folk songs.  He liked “Green Green Grass of Home” and “Honey,”  and Kenny Rogers songs.  I can rub his shoulders while I talk to him, and if I have time for a real treat, I massage his arms and legs with moisturizer.  Listen, I’m no saint – I put gloves on first, for his protection as well as mine.  We don’t need to exchange germs and bacteria any more than we are anyway, and okay I admit it…I still get grossed out by bodies.  But that is okay… because I know, no matter what level of sanity someone is at, it just feels damn good to have someone massage your arms, leg muscles, neck.  I know why I love manicures and pedicures, and it’s not just because of the pretty polish. 

I recently saw Amy Grant on tv, discussing caring for her elderly parents.  Her mother had recently died after having dementia, and her father has it now.  She was distraught that this was what the final chapter was like for two faithful servants like her parents, but she said that she was very moved by what a friend told her:  this is the last great lesson your parents will teach you.  Amy decided that if this was what her parents were teaching her, she damned well better be all in and learn it.  While the choice is not a conscious one of my dad’s, God works in mysterious ways and I know that I am learning about myself, my husband, my family, and every individual I come across during this experience.  Part of the best hour of the day is being forced to sit there and really not think of or care about anything but reflecting on my dad, on the life he gave us, on the relationship that we had… of all that he gave up, joys he experienced, how he has suffered.  How much I owe to him.  How unique and wonderful he is.  How blessed I am that this hurts so bad, that I have nothing but good memories and that’s why this is so devastating.  What a gift to be 43 and just now to have lost my dad, and what a gift to be so torn up about it.  Some people don’t talk to their parents.  Some people live far away from them. Some people are always fighting.  I am devastated to lose my dad this particular way, but I am so blessed and grateful that it IS this painful, simply because of what that says about all that came before.  Sometimes I wonder if my dad’s prayers are being answered.  If he prayed his whole life for my mom to be healthy and live a long life, for his children to be healthy and prosperous, and for God to give him the suffering instead.  I would not doubt it.  

I know that the angels who take care of my dad (well first of all, I do know that they are not all, and not always, angels) do not know him at all.  They don’t know that he was much more fun, kinder, more generous and loving than the person they take care of in the bed next to his or the room across the hall.  All I’ve got is our example to show these people how remarkable he was.  Do I love that every single nursing home and hospital so far has brought us people who sought us out, saying things like “wow, you girls and your mom sure do love your dad!” Hell yes.  I’m proud that people notice, and I am sure that is part of my sisters’ motivation too.  Not as in we want people to see us visiting so we get ‘credit’ – no, not that at all.  Rather, it is what he truly deserves, and he also deserves to have people see it and know it – THIS is what love looks like when you have been such a wonderful father.  Learn from him, people.  This is a man we will never leave, never forget, never cease to thank and love and blanket with affection to show the world how special and superior he was.  Everyone thinks this of their loved one, or most, I am sure.  But, sorry – we are here to show you different, more.  Hap Harral was in a league of his own.  

Feb27

*Coming back to an oldie from 2016. Many yoga mats later…and having inherited my beloved late yoga teacher’s shared mats… What is Your Yoga Mat Made Of?

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Nov 7, 2016 

What Is Your Yoga Mat Made Of?  

When I first started taking yoga, I borrowed a mat from the studio. Why invest in a mat if I wasn’t sure I was going to stick with it? It was one of those extra thick, Pilates-style mats which I now know made the balancing postures even more difficult than the thinner sticky mats. That Christmas, my husband bought me a yoga mat – basic industrial blue, the last one I would have ever chosen. But on that ugly mat, I began to fall in love with practicing yoga. Eventually, I bought my own mat, chosen solely for color and a cool hippie design stenciled on it. It was a dark beautiful eggplant color. As it wore with use, I kept it rolled in my car “just in case” I’d need it after I bought my new, lighter, spongy lavender mat. Then I began to see physical results from my months of regular yoga, and I realized it might be time to spend a little more money and buy a more serious mat that wouldn’t show wear and tear, wouldn’t send little foam flecks like sparks from under my toes when I rolled over them between urdhva mukha and adho mukha. About a hundred bucks later, I had my current salmon-colored mat with a microfiber mat-sized towel for those hot, sweaty practices. I keep my “newer old” lavender mat rolled up in the trunk, too! And now, I even have a super thin travel weight yoga mat to whip out at any hotel, beach, or home visit.  

But none of this is what I mean. Yoga can be done with or without a mat, on almost any surface. But many of us hold onto our yoga mats like a lifeline. Why? Because of what our yoga mats are really made of.  

My yoga mat is made of the tentative trepidation with which I first stepped onto it that day when the only other two ladies in class were tan, taut, and physically perfect. It holds the quivers of my first weak chaturangas and the hot breath of what I didn’t even know yet was ujjayi pranayama. It held me up when child’s pose brought me to tears, buckling under the weight of my dad’s dementia. It bears the crescent grips of my fingernails as I fought to raise myself up into wheel and free myself from the heavy anxiety of knowing the cell phone in my car might be buzzing with bad news again. It has silently observed the friends I have made simply by their silent nearness in practice. It has absorbed every single intention I have offered up during a practice, which means it has been a silent witness to my first yoga teacher’s dying Greyhound, another teacher’s emotional abuse by business associates, another’s grad student angst, another’s lost dog the week before her wedding. My mat has been under my arm and under my feet when my mind was full of my sisters sending their children to college, my neighbor’s entire family being stricken with cancer, the lump I felt on my rib.  

My yoga mat has soaked up the gratitude I have poured out in my yoga practice, for a life so abundantly blessed. For a husband who works so hard so that I can play this instrument called yoga, among other things. For the continued endurance of the sick twins of one of my yoga-mates, and the Rottweiller at our practice who will only move in for a hug after she hears the word “Namaste.” For the teacher who reminded me that we are all just beginners. It has stayed rolled in its bag but was still present when three of us decided to share a cup of tea and tears instead of Asanas one day. It is the vessel which contains so many of my prayers, my hopes, my goals, my pain. I have relaxed in bliss on my yoga mat. I have banged my head in frustration on it – wiped my brow, fallen on my knees. Curled into a fetal ball on it, as we all do sometimes whether by design or out of necessity. It pushes me; I push back. My sweat, spit, pulled hair and chipped nail polish are all part of my yoga mat.    

Sure, I can wash it…and I do, from time to time. But thankfully, my yoga mat will always be made of the fabric that it helps create: the drinking in, the letting go, the reaching out and holding on. It feels my weight, heavy some days, light as air others, steady at times, slippery and shaky. I have made a fool of it, and I have glorified it. It is my magic carpet and my oxygen tank, my magic mirror and my security blanket. It’s like those old Levi’s…the more I beat up on it, the better we work together. All of me, poured out and broken, rolled up and carried away: that’s what my yoga mat is made of.  

Sep13

What can I use that I already have?

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What can I use that I already have?

“What can I use that I already have?”

Here’s an unsolicited peek into my somewhat odd routine: what goes on in my bathtub. Don’t be scared, it’s not what you think. I take long baths in all seasons, sometimes more than one a day, even in addition to a shower. Other than my car, the bathtub is the closest thing to an office I have. Since the advent of the smartphone (and to be honest, it was before that too, just more cumbersome) I use my time in the tub to reply to correspondence, make my class playlist, read, set my schedule, order things that I need online. Like vitamins. Or a one-inch necklace extender for my niece. Or next month’s book for book club.

Online list fulfillment, for goods or information (can I use my stand-up paddleboard on Medina Lake?) is so immediate that it’s easy to overlook all that is right in front of us. Like many, I’ve been thinking-trying-hoping-planning to downsize, to purge, to live more simply and save more money. So, this morning with that in mind as I noticed I was near the end of the tub of my favorite moisturizer, wondering if there’s a backup in the hallway linen closet… it hit me: “what might I use that I already have?” Two birds, one stone?

I’m not suggesting skipping the Cerave and using coconut oil, (although, let’s be honest, we already know I’ve DONE that for everything from moisturizer to mouth-pulling and hair-taming), but I do have drawers and closets full of things that I either need to use, donate, or pass on to someone else. The gift bag I saved last week when friends brought me gourmet chocolates (which didn’t last 48 hours), the reader glasses I inherited from Jane, a pricey hair product that my sister passed on to me because she didn’t love it, the complimentary promotional notebook from my husband’s software conference (I could open a notebook store at this point.)

These things are taking up space, waiting for “someday,” I guess? Even if each of them wouldn’t be my first and best choice, I believe they’re worthy of being used, and why can’t I compromise on the ideal for certain things? I can’t imagine a friend would object to receiving a gift in a re-purposed gift bag bearing the name of a chocolatier. Or that I (or anyone else) would notice a temporary change in product on my rarely-styled hair. Usually, old hairspray and sweat are keeping it atop my head in a scraggly bunch with some small help from something containing elastic. And for all the notebooks I fill with ideas, essays, and lists, why would I need to buy one with a cartoon cat demonstrating yoga poses on the front cover?

My friend has given me her extra high-end cosmetics, and still an internet ad for a cool eye-brightening stick has reeled me in. Candles are in almost every room of my house, and I don’t light them very often. And does anyone really need designated “travel pajamas?”

It might be fun, or so I told myself this morning, to work my way through these things taking up space: my mom gives me the conditioner packet from her hair-color box, and our heating and cooling annual checkup included a free cooler-bag. Stuff is junk, yes. But I mean, I DO travel around with homemade peanut butter and often fruit in my car, so at some point that bag might not be a bad idea!

It won’t go perfectly, but imagining myself creating space, downsizing, having less clutter, and donating or repurposing more of these things to have calmer closets and emptier surfaces is appealing. I know I won’t be awesome at this, but I’m going to try.

And, then,

What I AM a little better at, what is less practical, is turning the sentiment (“what can I use that I already have?”) into a more figurative question.

Part of my job, if my job(s) include yoga instructor/student or a wannabe writer, is thinking that way: off the mat, outside the box.

As we strive for personal improvement by reading another self-help book, continuing our education, learning a new skill, making ourselves busier by doing ALLLL the things…adding to our schedule and resumé and activities list and that of our family members as well…

What if we each take a moment each morning and ask ourselves, “what can I use that I already have?”

If you’re a stellar soup-maker like my sister, and now have an emptier nest, you can share your gift with someone lonely, ill, or elderly. Most single people might be more inclined to open a can than go through the work of making homemade soup for themselves, so there’s nothing more appreciated! If you have tons of old books, you could write messages in them before donating to a local bookstore (there still are a few!) or make the message and the book choice even more personal and use it as an ACTUAL GIFT in a REUSED gift bag for a friend’s birthday with the promise of a picnic together. Last week a friend told me that when her daughter moved into a new home, the next-door neighbor gifted her a cutting from a plant. It had been given to that neighbor years ago by the previous owner of the home she had just moved into. What a precious connection! Could you take your dog to visit a nursing home? In the past year and a half, we’ve all seen people who sew make and share masks, a perfect example of this idea. A Facebook friend across the country, a real go-getter whom I only know once-removed through my husband, invited me to an accountability group of people trying to support and motivate each other. And don’t even get me started on the friend who came over to shovel a few tons of gravel for our firepit while we weren’t even home helping!

So, we are doing it already, right? But next time you’re tempted to overextend yourself, to stress yourself out trying to think of what you can do or give or be to someone…ask yourself that question:

“What can I use that I already have?”

I don’t mean just when it comes to giving gifts or sharing things. Let’s be honest, we’re not all going to do this instead of buying gifts (or at least I hope not!) But to add richness and purpose to each of our lives, instead of constantly asking yourself what MORE you can add to accomplish more, to contribute, what about what’s sitting in the crowded closet of your personality, the jumbled shelves of your talents and skills? Why add more to the pantry when its already so well-stocked?

If I could draw, I’d want to make the best custom cards. With clever sayings in them! You’re funny? Make someone laugh today. A stranger, even. You’re an awesome mom and your kid just went to college? Reach out to a young mom who may be struggling and remind her in your wisdom how these long days come up painfully short. Remind her of one of your favorite parenting hacks. If you used to be a bartender, don’t just serve wine at the next gathering, make a signature drink! If you’re direct, let that serve someone well by not skirting around an issue. (Thanks, Kim W.)

Your advice is invaluable. Your experience is needed. Your special talent can fill a gap like spackle today. There’s that quote about judging a fish by its ability to climb a tree, or something. Why do we try to climb the trees if we are so beautifully suited to the water, and vice versa?

Amy Grant sang, “Do you protect what you already own?”

My yoga teacher used to quietly say, “everything you need is right here.”

Ask yourself: “What can I use that I already have?”

Sep7

Twentieth.

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Twenty years married,

We are

Dreaming new dreams at midnight

Suspended over the valley

Under constellations

And stardust like freckles

In the moon-face

Of the Carolina night sky.

And in the morning,

We are

Tall, white weeds

In a garden of humble, cheerful dahlias

As we kneel on the cold, unyielding floor

No padded kneeler or gilded anything,

Just unselfconscious voices in hymns we know.

On the same day

When an inescapable hurricane rages

And willing soldiers have been slaughtered,

We are somehow given everything:

Awash in friendship, new and old

Bound to our families, here

Or gone ahead, waiting and winking.

Jul15

Happy Trails…

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Happy Trails…

My husband Jeff and I have driven south on I-77 to various parts of North Carolina about a kazillion times over the past 20 years. That’s the kind of math I do. Mostly together, although we’ve each made our solo trips as well. Back in the day when I was working a more traditional office job, we’d leave at the end of workday and arrive late in the dark of night. In more recent years of self-employment for us both (if one would want to refer to me as “employed,”) we’ve been able to leave whenever we want, since technology now allows almost a normal workday for his consulting business. It’s a route we know well (I only know it well because it’s one interstate, idiot-proof right up until the end) and have done in the darkness, the rain and snow, in old cars, new cars, and rental cars.

Depending on which relatives we are visiting, the drive can be anywhere from 7-9-ish hours. Sometimes people balk at that, especially knowing the serpentine West Virginia turnpike is included, but we love our hours in the car. That turnpike is my favorite part, and I’m the one who usually gets to drive it. The best trips are those taken in Red Snapper, the name of my 2015 Volkswagen GLI 6-speed. She’s not a youngster anymore, and neither am I, but we are bonded. There’s nothing like a road trip in the car you love. Jeff enjoys the drive, but he’s also a fan of flying anywhere. Me, I’d rather drive 8 hours than fly for one. The packing, the people, the pressure…to me, that’s an annoying way to travel.

Snapper and I took that very trip the day before yesterday, returning our granddaughter to her home after a week-long visit in Ohio. It was just the two of us in the car, my 7-year old grandgirl and me, and while we did leave fairly early upon awakening that morning, we had one stop about an hour from our house to see some extended family in their newly purchased home. From there, Kennedy and I had a fun, uneventful ride which involved plenty of car snacks (the key to any road trip) and a book series about fairies on Audible. Kennedy didn’t even take a nap the entire drive, and I assured her that I would not, either!

I prayed for safe travel, always have. Sometimes on these drives, I notice dozens of police patrol cars, waiting to pick off anyone speeding. My cruise control is always set for a particular number not too terribly far past the speed limit, so I’m not usually too worried about them. On this trip, I noticed very few speed traps. It was, however, the day after the fourth of July extended holiday, so I’m sure it was now a slower day to get back to a normal weekday presence. What I did notice, however, was the plentiful number of cars, from Ohio to West Virginia to Virginia and now North Carolina, pulled over and changing a flat tire on the shoulder.

About 30 years ago when I worked for the local franchise of Cox Cable, I worked with a woman whose husband was a police officer. One day on patrol on the nearby interstate, he pulled over to help a stranded motorist, and a distracted driver plowed into him with sufficient force to knock him right out of his footwear. I didn’t know the man, and I barely knew his wife, but that image has always stuck with me. I have considerable anxiety whenever I see people loitering near the side of the road, especially on the highways. Nowadays, people are standing around using their phones, not even thinking about keeping safe distance from the traffic whizzing by. I’ve been a broken record cautioning all the kids in our family as they obtained their driver’s licenses over the years to get far away from the vehicle and call for help. Some fervent prayers are said when I pass a person crouched and changing their own tire, without the benefit of flashing caution lights or much help.

We enjoyed the drive, popping gummy bears and sharing a Pop-Tart. We stopped to gas up and refill our snack tank as well with yogurt and granola, cheese and crackers near Tamarack, West Virginia. Kennedy was excited as ever about getting to both of the upcoming tunnels cut right through the mountains. As we neared the big hill (as my husband calls it) aimed to pass Mt. Airy, North Carolina, I said to myself (silently), “after all these years of uneventful trips, please don’t let us get a flat tire like all of these people! The last thing I want is to strand a 7-year old on the side of a mountainous road.”

Truly, rain or shine—and at least one time it was fully 8 hours of pouring rain—we had never had a problem on this drive south, nor the return trips north. Well, sure, there was the one time about 15 years ago when Jeff went alone, using my mom’s green minivan, and discovered he had no brakes as he slid down the interstate hill, but that was the only exception. He’s fine. He had to get to a service station and find a way to get his brakes fixed or replaced to continue. I remember being at a workday lunch, seated outdoors with my friend, when he called to tell me what was going on, but I quickly blocked out what might have happened.

My present-day internal prayer was answered, in a way. We did not end up with a flat tire. Instead, a semi-truck a few vehicles in front of us had shed his tire treads, or however that works, and that created a big problem for several vehicles. I saw the big black impediment flying first as it approached the car in front of me. With two full lanes of high-speed traffic and a narrow shoulder with a big valley drop beyond it, there was nothing to do but ease off acceleration and hold the wheel in both hands as the giant black rubber demon was spit from the rear of that vehicle, through the air and into the smiling grill of Red Snapper.

It felt like playing leap-frog with a car, as we heard (and felt!) the loud roll of an object beneath us giving us an ungraceful lift. I had been in the left lane, passing, so I kept both hands on the wheel until I could change lanes right. Kennedy just said, “what was THAT?!” but seemed unperturbed, and that’s the reaction I gave her right back, explaining what we had just hit. There was a sign for a rest area up ahead, and I planned to stop there and take a look. My tires felt fine, the steering wasn’t pulling to one side or the other, and no gauges were setting off alarms. As we approached the rest area, however, I could see that the exit ramp leading towards it was closed and blocked off. As we kept going, I knew we had some damage underneath, or were perhaps dragging a piece of the actual shredded tread, because I felt as well as heard a rhythmic dragging from the underbelly of Red Snapper.

We exited the interstate and headed towards a Marathon gas station, promised less than a mile ahead. The slower the vehicle went, the louder it was, and I gratefully pulled into the parking lot and told Kennedy to stay in the car while I looked at the damage. Poor Snapper’s jaw was fallen open, and the dragging I had heard was the shield, like a turtle’s thin under armor, ripped apart and dangling at various places. It had been riding along the road, and parts of it had been resting on the moving tires like they were sanding stones.

I was easily able to snap my little red car’s mouth shut again, but as for the thick, smelly, road-rash burned plastic shield, it was too big for me to handle. It was still too secure to pull completely off, but it couldn’t be left dangling. I opened Kennedy’s door and invited her inside the gas station with me. She unbuckled her seat belt from around the booster seat, reached for my hand, and I said,  “we’re gonna fix this with girl power.”

Inside, I found a narrow store, smaller than most, but adrenaline told me we would make something work. I had been looking for bungee cords, but in their absence, found some good old sturdy duct tape. I’m from Parma, Ohio, and my dad was NOT talented in the household arts. I grew up in a culture of duct tape. I remarked to the young woman behind the cash register what our situation was, and she said that she had a special clearance table with zip-ties and bungee cords. “Oh! Then I will take both of those too, please!” When I asked her to cut the packages open for me, she reached into the right front pocket of her threadbare jeans and pulled out her own knife to do so. Girl power, indeed.

Back at the curb, with Kennedy standing beside me to supervise, I used a combination of my newly purchased tools to shore up the dragging parts of my car. It all felt pretty secure, but we still had a couple of hours to go. We hopped back in the car, shared a few good sprays of what she calls “handzitizer,” and were on our way back to Interstate 77 South—this time, staying in the slower lane. I called Kennedy’s dad and told him what had happened, just so that he could call some local body shop or dealership while it was still the workday. I wanted to have the car looked at before I pointed it back up north for 500 miles the next day.

We stopped one more time along the route, after hearing the drag return, and recommitted my support strategy. By the time we pulled in to see Kennedy’s parents and little brother Jackson waiting for our arrival, we were again dragging a bit. But we had made it, safe and sound.

“Better than a flat tire,” I thought to myself. More expensive, maybe, but if it kept us from being sitting ducks on the side of the road, still my preference.

I could have opted to try and have the car fixed while I was there, but Hurricane Elsa was promising that adding another day to my planned date of departure was probably adding two days or more unless I wanted to drive in constant rainstorms and high winds. Early the next morning, I showed up at the local VW dealer and asked for mercy. I told them what had happened and requested that they’d hoist Snapper up and make sure whatever was going on under there was safe and secure enough to drive her all the way to Ohio safely.

Without hesitation, they were ready to help. A small-framed young man with dark hair came around from behind the counter and walked out to look at the car with me. He asked for my keys and took the car right back to put her on the lift. While he did that, I chatted with the two other guys in the service check-in department. One hailed from Michigan, a word that many Ohio State University football fans won’t even say out loud (he told me Michigan claims Toledo, and in an earlier life I would’ve told him he could have it, but now I’ve got a nephew who lives there). The other jovial bearded dude was about to take a motorcycle trip to Willowick, Ohio, in a couple of weeks to meet his wife’s father for the first time. We joked, we compared notes on places we knew or had in common, and then I retreated to the waiting area so that I could text my progress to my family.

The waiting area was a small but colorfully appointed alcove with murals of various VW models painted on the walls. My eye was drawn to the image of a red car with a street sign painted above it: Happy Ave.

Ah, so my prayer had not only been answered, but with a little extra wink from my dad.

Instantly, my mind went back to another trip to North Carolina that I had taken, long before I was married at all, around 1990, to visit my best friend who was stationed there with her Marine Corps husband. That trip was taken in a white diesel VW golf hatchback, the one my dad had procured for me to drive in high school. It was becoming overheated in the mountains, smoke under the hood and red lights on the dash, when the small-town mechanic we managed to coast towards suggested only that it be towed to the Volkswagen Dealership in Winston-Salem. Still a kid in most ways, around 20 years old, I remember calling my dad, sobbing. “What should I do?” “I have to rent a car!” “It’s going to be expensive!”

Hap laughed. Chuckled, more aptly. I could picture his smile, and I knew he was actually somewhat delighted by my predicament, once he knew I was safe. When I mimicked the accent of the mechanic, and lamented at the time lost both on the way to the destination, and then on the way back to pick up the car, he simply said, “but look at all the interesting people you wouldn’t have met otherwise.”

Two and a half decades later, I would recycle that message as I delivered my dad’s eulogy.

Yep, Hap’s fingerprints were all over this.

Rather quickly, the tidy young man who had first taken care of me came back to hand me my keys. Everything looked in order, and they had been able to simply remove much of that plastic protector that had run the entire length of the car like a ribcage to protect the organs of Red Snapper.

“You’ll want to get that replaced as soon as you get home,” he cautioned. “And don’t drive too crazy on the way.” As I handed him my credit card, he waved my hand away.

There was a time I used to appreciate when a man would be so deferential to a young lady, making sure I was well taken care of in a situation like this. I realized now, I appreciated a young man being deferential to an older woman in that same way.

I drove myself home, a little slower than usual and with the music not quite as loud so that I could hear the subtle complaints of my car. Being restrained a bit reminded me by contrast of how much I enjoy the relative freedom of the open road, a sunny day, a scenic route, loud music, open sunroof, and a fast car. For all of his sacrifices for us, I know now that my dad had this same enjoyment; that’s why he drove as he did, and as much as he did. That’s where I get it from, I guess. I feel so close to him on those drives, finding myself grinning or becoming aware of a tear in my eye, depending on the song on the radio and the current view.

Toby Keith and Chris LeDoux sang, “Now our windshield’s a painting that hangs in our room…it changes with each mile like the radio tune…”

A careful 9 or so hours later, I was home safe and sound and cutting into a rotisserie chicken with my hubby. (Unrelated, Jeff has told me that if someday I don’t make it back home to him, he will probably eat rotisserie chicken about three nights a week.)

And just this morning, one of my sisters told me that back when we were kids, riding in a yellow Suburban we had nicknamed “the Looney Bin,” she had asked Hap about the thick black curls of rubber on the freeway as we headed to a beach vacation. Heck, we may have even been heading to the Carolinas! She said that he explained to her how perilous they could be when they flew off of the 18-wheelers into traffic. Something he was worried about on those trips, maybe.

I don’t pretend my dad has special powers up there, now.

But “Our Father” does.

Jan18

BLAH-g.

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I’ve been urging, stalling, resolving, beating myself up for literally YEARS now about using this little blog. Just to get myself to write, no matter how insignificant. And on the rare occasion when I have myself in front of the keyboard with my iphone list of notes/reminders of what to write about…I remain uninspired.

But then I opened an email to a group of ladies at the gym to let them know about a couple of yoga events, and in “talking” to them, I ended up with a big fat email that they probably don’t have time to read…but also, “chatting” with them via email like that changed my mood and my day. The thought occurred to me that I could’ve written the same thing, organically, for this little blog and it would be the same–probably too long and without purpose, but so what? Read it or don’t, what do I care? I can still check off the “I wrote SOMETHING today” box. And now I will, just by copying and pasting that email. And in thinking of the things that email took my mind to…well, they made my day better.

Who cares if anyone gets anything from it? I DID! Duh. The elementary insights that come in my 50’s never cease to astound me.

Maybe by age 80 I will be like a functioning adult.

Email:

“Happy Monday. Happy MLK Jr. Day. Happy inauguration week. Happy second half of January. For a laugh, I looked up what “month” January is and the following things came up:

  • National Bath Safety Month
  • National Blood Donor Month
  • National Braille Literacy Month
  • National Hobby Month
  • Hot Tea Month
  • National Oatmeal Month
  • National Soup Month

Soooo, be careful in the tub–no hair dryers, ya hear? If you feel safe donating blood, give it a try. If you are ever interested in hearing about the process of donating platelets/plasma, let me know…a longer process, but so valuable for many people (cancer patients for example) and you get your own red blood cells back so it can be less taxing on your own energy. I don’t have much to share about Braille literacy, other than I remain truly amazed at what people can accomplish and “read” through their fingers. As for National Hobby month, do you have a good one? Let’s not call yoga one, since it’s just part of your lifestyle. I would call cooking one of mine, or writing. Hot tea month? PREACH! All winter, I’m drinking hot tea. My go-to is Earl Grey with a bit of honey and a splash of milk in a favorite mug. Thich Nhat Hanh says of tea:

“You must be completely awake in the present to enjoy the tea.
Only in the awareness of the present, can your hands feel the pleasant warmth of the cup.
Only in the present, can you savor the aroma, taste the sweetness, appreciate the delicacy.
If you are ruminating about the past, or worrying about the
future, you will completely miss the experience of enjoying the cup of
tea.
You will look down at the cup, and the tea will be gone.
Life is like that.
If you are not fully present, you will look around and it will be gone.
You will have missed the feel, the aroma, the delicacy and beauty of life.
It will seem to be speeding past you. The past is finished.
Learn from it and let it go.
The future is not even here yet. Plan for it, but do not waste your time worrying about it.
Worrying is worthless.
When you stop ruminating about what has already happened, when
you stop worrying about what might never happen, then you will be in the
present moment.
Then you will begin to experience joy in life”

National Oatmeal month? I can report that Panera has a delicious steel-cut oatmeal on the menu, even for call ahead/takeout if it is morning, with pecans and berries. Delicious! Remember you can make a batch of oatmeal in the crock pot and reheat it with more milk or whatever days later. That way you don’t have to stand over it cooking. Because that slow cook oatmeal is so much yummier than the instant, really….and that way you control what goes in. I like raisins, cinnamon, a little honey. And as for National Soup month, that’s every month for me because my sister who lives almost across the street LOVES soup, and with her kids now grown and gone, she shares some at least every week!! Best part is, she usually just makes them up as she goes along. I find that some of my friends who don’t consider themselves good cooks are intimidated by soups. If that’s you, just dive in and try! You can roast any vegetables in the oven or steam them or sautee’ them or boil them (tomatoes…. or butternut squash…leeks…broccoli….sweet potatoes…ANYTHING) and then add veggie, chicken, or beef broth…or canned tomatoes…or leftover V-8….use the blender or potato masher or immersion blender… add leftover rice from last night’s dinner! Or a can of black beans. Frozen peas. Fresh garlic. See where I’m going with this? Just make it up. If you’re not an expert on spices, look at some recipes just for inspiration. Tomatoes like garlic and basil. Pork likes sage or thyme. Cauliflower likes a little milk, cheese, and caraway seeds…. 
Okay, well didn’t THIS turn into a giant long email! It changed my day, because I woke up cranky and blue and just hopped on to send you all the free yoga link– so thanks for being here and helping my day take a turn!!
Peace, love, and namaste….MB

Dec7

Ain’t nothing to worry about, really.

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Ain’t nothing to worry about, really.

I’ve been known to name self-pity as my number one pet peeve. I can feel empathy for anger, grief, even forgive lies and betrayal, but I cannot tolerate self-pity. Nothing lights my fuse faster.

At the same time, I’m a person who is undeniably prone to melancholy when the season changes, when cold and darkness encroach. Much of the year I’m flitting around, every bit as annoying as a fly at a picnic, spreading a ridiculous positive attitude or at least some humor, even if it’s caustic.

So when the heavy, dark, and sad turns inward on me, my pity parties happen alone or with just my husband as witness. They don’t involve many words or even complaints. They involve longer baths, more comfort foods, even later sleep-ins (I’m not a morning person. Nor a night-owl. I’m best from 10 to 2.) and a few tears…lots of cups of hot tea and guilty-pleasure television, curled up quiet with a blanket. Missing my cat.

I know that I have an easy life. Sometimes, the ease and joy give me guilt…because, why just enjoy the good stuff when you can muddy it up with a useless emotion like guilt? I do try to share with others my joy, as well as tears, to verbally tickle and warmly support, to send texts or cards or mac and cheese as a way of assuaging that guilt, as a way of trying desperately and unsuccessfully to deserve or earn my relatively healthy, happy daily life. Cognitively, I know that’s not how it works. But I am profoundly grateful, profoundly fearful of the other shoe to drop, and profoundly compassionate by nature.

I guess I feel that if I so abhor self-pity in others, then I certainly don’t have a place for it in my own head since I’ve already decided I’ve got an easier life than “they” do. Almost across the board, I do feel like that’s true. So I have to keep the sadness at bay, the dark and heavy that descends on all of us at some point, and not always necessarily when things are going wrong.

The tiniest little things, the most off-hand sentence thrown about, can help me with this. And that’s just what happened last week. No fanfare or explanation needed, just right to the heart of the matter.

Without specifically naming the concerns of that day, because we all take turns having the same ones in general (a dying relative, a global pandemic, a friend with a terminal diagnosis, unnamed anxiety about the future, a family member losing a job, and all on the same day…) I will simply say that one day last week, I woke up in the morning as I always do, next to my husband. Feeling my feelings, I curled towards him as I hugged my pillow, and said something like,

“I just wake up so afraid of everything.”

And with no probing question, no eyeroll, no valiant attempt to change my mind, he simply responded,

“I know, but I’m here with you.”

If you know my husband, you probably think of him as loud. Maybe funny comes to mind. Or if he has insulted or criticized you, which is probable, maybe a more colorful adjective. He is too full of confidence and candor. He tends to be a cynic. His positive qualities are innumerate, but I won’t list them because this is about how no matter what his snarkier characteristics are… there he was being Jesus. Being God.

“I know, but I’m here with you.”

Meanwhile, here’s me, the one praying daily for the Holy Spirit to “bless my words, guard my words, and inspire my words…” and it looks like that paraclete landed right on my husband instead, at least on that day.

Whatever is going to happen to me, to you, to any of us…

“I know, but I’m here with you.”