SIGH

I've been fighting all day NOT to write this blog post.  But my promise to tell the truth about my life is prompting me forward.  I have to believe we are all struggling -- maybe not in exactly the same way, but close enough.  See if you can relate...

December in American culture is the Christmas season -- whether sacred or secular you can't escape it.  There are traditions that are sacrosanct: lights, trees, Santas, carols, gifts, foods, parties, family gatherings.  This year there is also a deadly and highly contagious virus floating on the air amongst us.  This wrecks havoc with the way things are supposed to be.  

Throughout much of the past year we've dealt with inconveniences and disappointments and cancelled plans because of the Covid-19 pandemic.  We should be used to it; more resilient by now.  But THIS IS CHRISTMAS!  NOBODY MESSES WITH CHRISTMAS!  Right?

Here are the current stats:  U.S. 18.5 million confirmed cases; 325,000 deaths.  In my county: 19,000 cases, 338 deaths.  And it's getting worse.  Everywhere case numbers are rising.  Deaths are over 3,000 daily in the U.S. 

Given these grim statistics, what are we to do about Christmas?  Some, of course, are doing as they normally would, ignoring all pleas from responsible politicians and public health officials to please, please, please not travel or gather at Grandma's house.  The deniers have shown up at super spreader events throughout this nightmare, cocksure that the virus doesn't pertain to them, facts be damned.  A lot of them are getting away with it personally (who knows how many others they've infected or how much they increased the burden on health care providers?) but some have not and have lost their lives or at least life as they knew it. No matter, apparently.  No lesson learned.

But some of us have taken strict precautions, sacrificing holidays and hugs from the grandkids, trips, errands, haircuts, and dental appointments.  We've only seen the people we love via Zoom.  Nothing about our lives has been normal for nearly a year.  With two vaccines now approved and rolled out to the first priority recipients, we can see light at the end of the tunnel -- but must wait our turn in the queue -- which will take months to complete.  

While waiting we come up against Christmas, already a highly emotional holiday.  This year I find I am both relieved of any expectations of creating the holiday magic AND deeply disappointed and in grief about cancelling any family gatherings.  I won't see the grandkids opening their gifts, no Christmas Eve buffet with all the goodies we bring and share, no family jigsaw puzzles where Hub and my daughters-in-law reign, no Son-One naps by the fireplace, no hugs and laughs  and stories and memories to be made.  We will be each in their own little square on the Zoom app on the computer for an hour or so at some point.  That's it.  

We tried to negotiate a way around it.  We all say we are being "careful" but each part of our little extended family has a slightly different definition of careful and trying to accommodate that proved to be too hard.   We thought we'd be pretty safe if we were outside on our covered porch, heaters going, but with food and gifts and kids, we knew we couldn't distance enough or keep masks on...it just got too logistically daunting. Tensions rose at our house trying to figure this out; frustration reigned for all with each shift of plan.  So, we just called it off; not in anger but in defeat.  No one is happy.  Everyone is resigned.  We all still love and respect each other.  And this whole thing sucks.

I take comfort in knowing that we are sacrificing for a greater good -- our continued health and that of those we love and those in our community.  I take comfort in knowing that sometime in the coming months we will get the vaccine and can make up for lost time.  

Still, this is Christmas.  This is hard.  Harder than the other losses of togetherness.  Hub and I will be alone for the holiday for the first time in the 52 years of our relationship (48 married).  That's a weird thing.  But we are not the only ones in this situation and we are blessed to have each other and a warm comfortable home to isolate within.  I count my blessings....as the tears fall.

If you feel similarly, I see you.  I'm with you.  We can do this.  But we don't have to put a smiley face on it every damn minute.  

At least, that's the view from here...©

THE HARDEST PART

Almost every morning, after I get my coffee and find my seat in front of the 'staring window' of our living room -- the big window on the world and our busy bird feeders -- I sit in the silence of my home and feel my heart break.  Almost every morning the pain of that broken heart moves me to tears.

Love and grief are two sides of the same coin, they say.  You cannot grieve if you have not loved. And loving will inevitably lead, one day, to grief.

I've been thinking of this pandemic, now having spanned winter, into spring, into summer, and have wondered out loud to myself and others, "What's the hardest part?"  For many in my age group it's  the loss of routine, the loss of freedom to go and do as "normal", the long days of at home-ness where one day follows the next in a kind of monotony; the alone-ness.

I am not bored; I am not even alone. Hub and I have cocooned companionably together.  We have mastered Zoom to stay in touch with friends and go to meetings and both have enough interests and curiosity to keep us occupied and stimulated.  We like our simple routines; we like quiet; we like our home and the gardens.  We are mainly content.

So, the hardest part?  For me it is the disconnect from family: my sons, their wives, my two granddaughters.   We have stayed in touch on Zoom, at times unsatisfactorily, especially early on when everyone was shellshocked and stressed.  I have screen shots of some pretty sad and exhausted faces.  But it was better than nothing at all, so we persevered for several weekly meet-ups. 

Then I set up a FB Messenger Family Group which has been more successful, with almost all of us posting updates, photos, and items of interest as the spirit moves.  That's been fun.  On Messenger I did two months of an every morning post of "Mr. Bear's Stay at Home Adventures" for our 5 y/o granddaughter.  I didn't want her to forget our house or her favorite activities here, so I posed her big Teddy Bear in familiar settings doing familiar things and sent her a photo every day.  In response, my son sent a video of her replying to Mr. Bear.  It was a highlight of my day!  (I later created a paperback book of the 60+ Mr. Bear photos for her to keep.)

With the weather turning warmer, and the local cases of Covid flattening out, we've invited some or all of the family here in person for outdoor gatherings.  We physically distance; don't touch anything in common; keep the sanitizer handy.  Hub and I have prepared and served meals in our garden space, with individual tables set far apart.  It's been fun and A LOT of work -- hauling tables and chairs, figuring out the logistics of foods on each separate table -- we essentially set it up like a restaurant and we are the chefs and servers and clean up crew.  The distance from kitchen to yard is such that I get my 10,000 steps in by the time I'm done setting up and executing the event.  Last week we added cards and gifts for everyone -- we had Fathers Day, a daughter-in-law birthday, last day of school, last day of preschool, and a wedding to celebrate!

A wedding....yes.  Son Two and his beautiful fiance were married on May 9.  I can't believe I haven't written about it.  It's a sign of this time that a fog rolls in on what should be a bright day of joy, but ends up feeling unreal, shrouded, physically and emotionally distanced.  They had a big wedding for 250 guests planned with all the traditional bells and whistles. Then the shutdown came.  They agonized over what to do, with several scenarios swirling until, finally, they did all they could do:  they got married in their backyard with two witnesses, an officiant, and a photographer.  The two extended families attended via Zoom.  It took an age for the audio to work, then during the ceremony the screen kept freezing up.  But still, we got to see as best we could, if not really participate.  We are grateful it was a glorious sunshiny day for them.  I loved getting the professional photos -- absolutely lovely.  They rescheduled the big party/reception for later this summer, or if not, then maybe next spring -- there are no guarantees that it will happen; we don't know how long this pandemic will rage.  It is not what they wanted, not at all what any of us could have anticipated for this wedding 18 months in the planning, but they are wed.  They are happy.  And we are proud.

But none of this is how I want it to be.   I especially miss having my grandgirls here to hang out....so many times they would come for the day, or a sleepover.  At the family gathering I read a book (from 8 feet away) to our 5 y/o and she got tears in her eyes and said, "I want to hug you so bad!"  And I said the same, choking back my own tears.  Then I told her to wrap her arms around herself; I did the same.  And we pretended we were hugging each other.  I told her I hug her in my heart every day.  It was a bittersweet moment.   Our 10 y/o granddaughter is changing so fast I feel like I'm missing precious time with her before her interests turn more toward friends and my close relationship with her will take a back seat.  For awhile we Zoomed regularly, then it fell by the wayside as she got busy with online school, her best friend on Messenger Kids, and a new puppy.

As for my sons and their wives -- at first I sent them texts regularly, checking in, offering encouragement, support.  But I rarely heard much back and thought maybe I was hovering too much.  So I stopped doing that, making a declaration to myself on May 2 to back off.  I also moved them from my custom FB friend list where I think they might be overwhelmed with all my brilliant posting of current events, politics, inspirations, information, and selfies.   It just seemed like maybe I was trying to create something that was a one-sided desire, since I realized too many of my FB posts were clandestine messages to them and then I looked with hope for a "like" or a comment.  My god, embarrassing!

I don't mean to imply we are not close; we are.  When we are together it's wonderful and we have a great time. But when we are apart I'm still trying (too hard) to keep that connection going.  They, as it turns out, have full, busy, stressful, joyful, challenging lives that don't include daily outreach to Mom.

This has been the hardest part -- my longing for a closer connection, for more reciprocity from my 'kids'.   What I've grown to see even more clearly is that that longing comes from a perspective of ages and stages.  I know in my 69 year old bones how precious life is; how fragile; how fleeting.  That is the grief side of the coin. Because the love side is how deeply I cherish my family and wish for us to rush into a regular huddle hug, even via text.  But alas...

I was amused to hear the four 30-something "kids" talking about birthdays at our recent backyard dinner and a couple of them now being "mid-30's" and sort of already dreading the big 4-0.  They laughed about the new puppy and that if he lives his expected 15 years, they will be 50!!!...and how shocking that was to realize.  I offered that when I think 15 years ahead, I hope to still be alive. They looked a bit shocked at that.  They think we are here forever.  They think we all have all the time in the world.  We do not.

The hardest part?  That this virus has robbed us all of precious time together.  That this virus is deadly and to thwart it we must sacrifice irretrievable moments of deep connection, of sharing space together, of hugging not just with our hearts, but also with our arms.  That realization, every day, brings me to tears.  Then, I take a deep breath, find gratitude in health and so much more, and carry on.

At least, that's the view from here...©

LESSONS FROM THE TITANIC

Hub and I talk daily about how we are feeling in this time of Stay Home/Stay Healthy (as our governor has named this "stay at home order" period) and how we are navigating this in our daily activities and emotional lives.  It grounds me to be able to voice my confusion, fear, gratitude, anger, love, concern...all of it.

Yesterday I told him I felt anxiety building again, after several days' hiatus.  Hub pointed out that the novelty of this situation has worn off 3-1/2 weeks into this.  At first it was freeing to let go of social obligations, activities, and tasks.  It was fun to hang out together, with no distractions, in easy, open-ended days, feeling the playfulness and contentment and support of this gift of unstructured time. 

But now, we are still here, still practicing physical distancing for who knows how long.  It's not ending yet.  We have not hit our peak of new cases and more deaths.  As more is learned about this virus, we are discovering asymptomatic carriers can pass it along, and possibly much easier than we imagined -- not just through touches, coughs, and sneezes but also through "aerosols" in the air from merely breathing.  The only way to slow or stop this is to stop interacting with other humans.  So we have to find a way to define our every day lives within this confinement for the long haul.

We notice that since discovering Zoom, our calendars are filling up again.  We are seeing friends and family frequently and even going to meetings.  And because the technology is easy and available with a keystroke, we are even increasing our time with various groups (monthly meet-ups have become twice monthly or even weekly) and while this may be a lovely thing to do, we are suddenly feeling "too busy" again.  We have rushed into familiar territory to fill the void.

And isn't that what we do when we feel off balance?  We seek to find balance with the familiar rhythms of our lives.  For us it's connecting, organizing, and taking action.

But in doing that, I feel I'm shortchanging the opportunity to build new skills, make new habits, exercise new muscles for living that can serve me better now and in the future.  Do I even want to go back to what was so familiar?  Or do I want to create a new way of being in my world?  Maybe by filling my time with these familiar distractions, I'm not diving deeply enough into the grief all of this has caused.  Maybe I'm not giving myself the chance to find meaning in this moment, to find the gifts surely there to discover.

I was watching author/motivational speaker Glennon Doyle's  daily video, "Family Meeting", on FB this morning where she compared this pandemic to the Titanic.  She highlighted many of the characters portrayed in the movie and how they all responded to the impending disaster differently.  She urged us to not look at this as "Is this ship going down?" in a state of panic, but rather, "Who am I on this ship?"  Am I the one shoving people out of the way to save myself (denying, hoarding, endangering others by going out) or am I in the orchestra on the deck, playing on, giving the gift I know how to give no matter what happens, perhaps easing the way for others?  We get to choose.  I think there is a lot to learn about ourselves right now if we are open to the lesson.

At least, that's the view from here...©

DRUNK ON NUTTY LOVE

Do you know any sloppy drunks?  You know, the kind that after a few cocktails get all maudlin and sad and wax philosophic about the human condition, or express their deep and abiding love for you and every other living thing with the utmost sincerity (at least in the moment), as they cling to your hand, hug you too long, or gaze blearily into your skeptical eyes?

That's me at some point over the holidays, but without the booze.  It's short-lived.  Mostly I'm not a fan of the forced intimacy and expected good cheer of Christmas, but there is generally a moment when it all comes into emotional sharp relief and I get drunk on love and gratitude.

And that moment often involves a "visitation" from my mother.  She's been dead for 9 years, but around Christmastime she decides to float on back and hang out with me.  Even as I write this the tears are falling because she is punishing me with her love again.  She is forgiving me for being judgmental, rude at times, dismissive; for taking her for granted.  She is reminding me that she loves me anyway, in that Christlike way of mothers, and that her sacrifices were made from her heart and because she had no other choice.  Love just is.

She's also sort of smug about watching my pity party of longing to sit and talk with her.  "See?  NOW you miss me!  Now you're 67 years old and your "kids" are grown and you worry about them anyway, your grandkids are precious but exhausting, your eyesight is a struggle and for some reason you can't hear your husband quite so clearly as you used to when he turns his head away and keeps talking.  You nod asleep in front of the TV at night and you wake up way too early in the morning.  You try to keep your body healthy, but you share my sugar addiction and losing weight is hard!  The world is moving so fast and sometimes it all seems confusing and overwhelming and you think war, famine, and pestilence are just around the corner, especially with a crazy Republican in the White House!  You think a lot about the past and have some new curiosity about your genealogy.  You realize you are the only one left of your original family and that particular loneliness is completely unexpected. You wish I was around to talk to about all of this.  You wish you could tell me you are sorry for being so impatient with those very same issues when I talked about them.  Well, nope!  I'm dead!"  And she smiles -- with love, wisdom, and bit of quiet self-righteousness.  (She was not an overtly vengeful person, but she could "silent treatment" you into submission.)

So, there's all that and also the memories of Christmases she created, the food, the decorations, the gifts, all the usual family Christmas stuff that she pretty much did single-handedly (see: "taking her for granted" above).   Some of that I've retained, some I've let go.  But I have a deep appreciation for her, for all of it, and I do wish I could tell her so.

The other day I remembered a tiny tradition that I'd nearly completely forgotten over the years.  Mom used to buy mixed shelled nuts.  You see them in bins in the produce section:  almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts, pecans, Brazil nuts.  She had a wooden bowl, the same bowl each time, where she'd put the nuts and the nutcracker and picks.  The bowl sat on the kitchen table and I remember my dad, more than anyone else, sitting in his place at the table, bowl before him, as he cracked and ate with delight.

I don't think my granddaughters have ever seen nuts in the shell, have ever cracked open a nut to find the meaty prize inside.  Today I got Mom's bowl down from the top shelf where it has been ignored for years, filled it with nuts I bought at the grocery store, placed cracker and picks atop the pile, and now it awaits the arrival tonight of the family for our traditional Christmas Eve buffet.

Like those nuts,  Mom and I often bumped up against our unique tough exteriors, but inside there was the reward of dense, sweet substance, different each from the other but still a delight.

If she was here, I'd cry into that bowl, drunk on love.  I guess, actually, that's exactly what I'm doing.  Her spirit is here with me, happy to see me and asking why in the world I didn't bake any Christmas cookies?!?

At least, that's the view from here...©

REMEMBRANCE

My mom died nine years ago this morning.

It was a day just like this bright and sunny July 10th.  I had been sitting vigil at the hospital for 12 hours each day since July 5 when she had a massive stroke; I had spent the night that first night, not thinking she would live until morning.  She did, although she never regained consciousness in the next 5 days.

Still, I was there, talking to her, stroking her arms, brushing her hair, holding her hand, laying my head on the pillow next to hers.  I brought in family photos for the windowsill and placed the flowers on her bedside table.  Hub was with me most of the time.  Our oldest son came home from his college town to see her; our younger son, home on summer break, held down the fort at the house, stopping in periodically at the hospital.  I called the rest of the far-flung family and held the phone to her ear as they talked to her; I didn't hear their words but I assume they expressed their love and appreciation for her.  Was she aware of any of that?  I don't know...

On the morning she died, I got off the elevator with my Starbucks mocha and had a big smile on my face as I prepared to greet the nurse coming toward me. I had gotten to know the nursing staff, the custodial staff, the Hospice workers.  All were gentle, caring, respectful, friendly, compassionate people.  This morning, though, the nurse came came to me with a look that could only mean one thing...she enveloped me in her arms and said, "She passed about a half hour ago."  I was not shocked, but I burst into tears.  I was sad and relieved.  Her 5 years of a subtle, then precipitous decline into dementia and physical weakness were over.  She did not want to "linger" and she really didn't.  Her stroke came on suddenly and then she was gone.

The Hospice harpist happened to be on the floor...she had learned of my mom's death just before I arrived.  She waited there for me and we entered mom's room together.  She played while I sat at my mom's bedside, weeping.  Truly she was an Angel in that moment.  I will never forget the sense of awe and peace her music elicited as I spent the final moments I'd ever have in my mother's presence.

I'm not sure why I needed to recount all that here, for others to see and read.  But as with any other post in this blog, my hope is that by sharing my life, I'm touching that of another.  There is reassurance in knowing that the human experience is shared.  We are not alone.

I miss my mom every single day.  Sometimes I feel her close by...like right next to me!  But other times, like today, she is only a memory.  I am honoring her in my heart today, with recollections of her love, her hugs, the firm grip of her hand on mine that last time I sat with her before her stroke, her smile, her laugh, her holding my babies, her amazing talents in undertaking almost any job, from hammers to hair cuts, from baking to painting (walls and landscape canvases!), her pride for her family, her stoic determination, her introverted need for quiet, for her tidy and organized home and the flowers in her garden.

After the arrangements were made for her cremation, there was little else to do until planning for her memorial service began.  We'd decided to hold it a month later, in Illinois, her home before she'd moved to Washington in 1996 to live near me.  So we packed a couple of bags and left town.  I needed a change of scenery, to breathe, to grieve, to heal.  We have a little place in North Idaho.  So we went.  And that is where I write from today.  It's all flooding back, even the trip to Idaho.

Here's what I know:  Unless there is crazy pathology or abuse in family relationships, you will find that in spite of any differences, disagreements, or arguments; in spite of petty squabbles, misunderstandings, or simply 'putting up with' the weirdnesses of various family members....you will miss them when they are gone.  Make peace with those you love every day, forgive the annoyances,  and celebrate the good in each other.  It's lonely to be the last one standing in your original family.  I am that.  And some days, I just want them all back, with all the flaws and flailings we all brought to the mix.  Me included.

At least, that's the view from here...©

BABY BROTHER

I may have pinched him.  I won't admit to it, but I do admit to it being possible.  I mean, he sort of materialized out of nowhere and to my 4-year old sensibilities, it was like waking up to an alien invasion.  I don't think the pinch would have been malicious -- just curious.  "If I do this, what will he do?"  Oh!  Cry!  And Mommy will come running and assume I'd made a nefarious move on him.  Well, maybe I did.

I just know that, oddly, my aunt and uncle showed up on Davy Crocket night (not on Sunday afternoon, like usual) and talked all through the show with my grandma while my mom and dad were out.  The next morning Mom was still gone which was terrifying, but Dad said I had a baby brother and she was with him.  Grandma helped me make paper chains to decorate Mommy's hospital room, since she would be there for almost a week (the norm back in February 1955).

This memory came to me out of the blue on Saturday.  There are so many memories I could have chosen, but that one seemed so sweet, so innocent.  I just sat with my coffee cup and thought about that and the ensuing 60-plus years.  I wanted to go back to the beginning; to remembering the announcement that I had a baby brother.  That memory still held a lifetime of possibilities.

My little brother's lifetime ended last Friday, January 22, a month and a day before his 61st birthday.

So many families have cancer stories to tell.  They each include emotional shock and physical horror. They all include courage and perseverance.  Many end in a reprieve and a joyful appreciation of a battle won.

Some end in grief.

The cancer story in our family ended in grief.  The details aren't important but people are curious so the cursory outline is this:  My brother was diagnosed in late 2010.  He had surgery in January 2011 and a round of "just in case" chemo, since they were pretty sure the surgery "got it all".  All tests were normal until out of the blue on a routine exam in late 2014 he was told the cancer was back...and bad.  He underwent aggressive and absolutely horrific chemo regimens to no avail.  In June he elected to withdraw from treatment.  He hoped to make it through the holidays.  He did.  And then through his daughter's birthday, then his wife's in early January.

In recent weeks the decline was precipitous; comfort and reassurances were the orders of the day,  until in the wee hours of January 22, when, as my sis-in-law said when she called me:  "He slipped out during the night..."

As adults we didn't live near each other.  As families do, ours has scattered from one side of this huge country to the other -- he ended up in Georgia and me in Washington.  Hub and I traveled to visit him and his family in late August.  I am grateful for that visit even though it was hard to see him looking and behaving so differently than how he'd always been.  But that was just the disease, not his spirit.

Now I think about the brother I always knew:  a big-hearted, fun-loving, family-loving guy.  I see the twinkle in his eyes, hear his big laugh, feel the welcoming hug, and note the tenderness of a man who also shed a tear when his heart was filled with pride --  I saw this on his daughter's wedding day.  He didn't want this disease; he didn't want to be restricted from living large; he certainly didn't want to leave his family behind:  wife, children, grandchildren.

Yet, I hope he found healing and peace in his final journey.  If near-death experiences are to be believed, it seems there's a place of enormous love out there waiting for us.  What I know for certain is that those left behind hold a place of enormous love in our hearts.

As for me, I just wish I could reach out and pinch him....this time he'd laugh, I'm sure of it.

As least that's the view from here...

My brother was a stained glass hobbyist.  The last piece he created, as a gift for me of a
 quintessential Northwest scene, is something I'll treasure forever.  Isn't it beautiful?

END OF AN ERA

I am feeling discombobulated.  (Love that word!)  Here it is past mid-month and I've not written a post in either of my blogs.  The thought of sitting down to write creates a "thud" in my heart and mind.  What would I say?  I got nothin' for the blog.

It's not really writer's block.  There is ALWAYS something to say.  Writers write.  And I've been writing.  But it's been mostly random thoughts, stream-of-consciousness, journal-puzzling, email responding, all around my decision to leave my UU Fellowship (well, take a long sabbatical) -- the place and community that has been my home-away-from-home for 23 years.

"Leave my church" is a HUGE phrase and one I want to take back the minute I write it.  My church is not a typical Christian church, the image conjured when the word "church" is uttered.  I am a Unitarian Universalist -- a seeker who finds wisdom in all faith traditions and within my own human experience.   We call ourselves not a church, but a Fellowship -- and have taken great pride in our community of "like-minded" people (mostly liberal thinkers and doers) gathering in an old Methodist church building we bought a couple of decades ago, situated in a fairly conservative small town north of Seattle.

Alas, pride goeth before the fall.  This UU community also fancies itself an anti-authoritarian throwback to the glory days of the 60s when "Question Authority" was the rallying cry.  I think it still wise to use our brains and question leaders not acting in our best interests.  But there is process for doing that -- a democratic process that certainly includes replacement of elected leaders through the election process.   There might also be protests and petitions and expressing differing opinions.

But are these appropriate and loving strategies to direct at church leaders, friends who sit across the aisle on Sunday mornings?  Is it OK to give voice to flaring tempers?  To conspiracy theories and rumors?  To name-calling and character assassination?   To promoting an "us" vs "them" divide?  I don't think so.

But that is what has happened over the past few months at my UU Fellowship.  I don't even recognize what it has become.  We had a inexperienced (and some might say, controlling) minister, who started the ruckus with a personnel decision unpopular among some, but supported by others.  She has now resigned after only being in our church for just over a year.  Two months prior to her leaving, I resigned from an important committee chair position because I couldn't work with her any longer for a number of reasons unrelated to her personnel decision (with which I agreed).  Three Board of Trustees members resigned for the same reason.  All of us have left the whole church to some degree or another because of the vociferous faction that rose up in defense of the dismissed volunteer.  Some violated boundaries of confidentiality, decorum, and just good sense.  (Really?  Calling for resignations?  Monopolizing meetings and services with  personal agendas? Calling out our Board of Trustees as Nazis that Hitler would be proud of?  That's going a bit far, don't you think?  Did the good folks on the Board deserve this vitriol?)

So, I've been grieving the loss of what was once a truly loving and supportive community for me.  One in which I devoted thousands of hours of time and energy, as well as thousands of dollars in financial support over the years.  I had so many friends there, so many positive and joyful experiences.  Yes, there were flaws, underlying problems that would surface and then recede, but all- in-all I hung in there, believing (even in the past few years when my involvement seemed like mostly work and worry) that we were "better" than other churches -- we were smarter, more insightful, more loving, more giving, more involved in the community and the world with our activism, more creative and more accepting -- more compassionate.  But nope.  Not so much.

I get the lesson here.  Putting oneself or one's community on a "better than" pedestal is always wrong, and particularly wrong for a church; it never plays out quite that way.  I am humbled at the same time I am sad and disillusioned.  I am grieving.

I'm also excited about the freedom from responsibility and commitment to that institution.  It really was a full-time job at times.  If I wasn't physically there, I was there in my thoughts and plans, talking  about and organizing for this or that committee or event or worship service.  It came only second to my family in importance -- and sometimes (too often) it came first.  I thought about it when I went to sleep, when I woke up, and even during my insomniac nights I'd get up and work on a project of some kind.  Sheesh!  I was completely out of balance!

So, I'm getting quiet now.  Sitting with this stunning turn of events that I never saw coming only a few months ago.  I'm opening myself to new vistas of spiritual growth, personal development, healing and forgiving.

It's just that in that space, writing has taken a back seat.  But I'll be back.  Writers write.

At least, that's the view from here... ©

MAMA

It's well documented (year after year) that I struggle with the Christmas season.  But the other day I just sat right down and cried.

Grief came calling out of the blue when I was cleaning my house, preparing to welcome dinner guests.  Thoughts of my mom came to me and my heart nearly burst with love and appreciation for her.  I wanted her back in my kitchen, sitting with me again, so I could tell her how much it all meant to me; how much she meant to me even when I didn't know it, rebelled against it, was too ego-centric or stubborn or just plain ignorant to tell her until she was well into her elder years and I was starting to have a glimmer of all she had accomplished as a wife, mother, and woman -- without complaint and with an admirable degree of good cheer.

I think of her most vividly at Christmas.  I know now the effort, work and worry that goes into "creating the magic".  She seemed to do it effortlessly, but nothing that memorable happens without effort.  My dad was a good father, but not a very helpful husband when it came to "women's work".  Jobs were definitely gender-specific and I don't believe I ever saw him get very close to the kitchen.  Or the vacuum cleaner.  Or the gift-wrap.  But it was all there, the Christmas magic, every year -- mostly a solo effort on her part.

Maybe some of my struggles with the season are about missing my mom.  My parents' home was always the family gathering place.  The tradition of hosting the holiday get-togethers was never passed down to my brothers or me.  We all went to Mom and Dad's, even when grandkids came along, even when I moved 2000 miles away and flew to Illinois for the holidays.   It wasn't until my dad died and my mom moved to the Northwest to live near me that I hosted the holidays.  It was a small gathering of just the four of us and mom.  The rest of the family was far-flung by that time.  Mom always brought coffee cake and fruit salad for early morning gift opening and always a dish to contribute the Christmas dinner too.  She carried bags of gifts wrapped and ready and was dressed in holiday finery with her fancy jewelry sparkling in the firelight.

Later, when her dementia set in, she seemed more confused than festive.  At her last Christmas with us she has a haunted look in her eyes, even as she is half-smiling in the photos and trying to remain present with the event.  I see my own haunted look of desperation -- the too-wide smile, the kneeling-at-her-side, arm-around-her-shoulders attentiveness,  the attempt to cheer her going so wide of the mark that now I  find the red boa and fuzzy Santa hat I adorned her in to be less fun than humiliating.

Christmas is a time of remembering and my memories of Mom are vivid and joyous; vivid and sad.

So I sat right down and cried the other day, tears streaming down my cheeks, dust cloth in hand, and murmured, "mama".    But she would not have wanted me to feel so bereft.  I can hear her, as I did so many times, say, "Oh, honey, don't cry.  I just want you to be happy."

Maybe me making peace with Christmas would be a way to honor her.  Maybe finding happiness in this supposed "Season of Joy" could be a healing practice.  And maybe a 64-year-old woman can just miss her mom...and that can be OK too.

At least, that's the view from here…. ©

ADJUSTMENTS MUST BE MADE

Once a month I facilitate a group called WISE -- Women Investigating, Supporting, and Exploring -- a gathering at my Unitarian Universalist church for women over 60.  We investigate what it is to be an "elder", how our culture views us, and what we can do to bust a few myths of aging. We support each other with sharing of  joys and sorrows, challenges and victories. We explore where we are and where we are going next, setting goals, making plans, making peace, and still raising our fists, fighting to the end for a better world.  We laugh a lot too.  

Yesterday we exchanged recipes, which is about the most traditionally "old lady" thing we've ever done.  We had a blast, each pulling a recipe out of a passed basket, then listening as the person who brought the recipe told the story behind it; why it was special to her.  We also talked about what kind of Christmas we are having this year:  Joyous, Lonely, Cranky, Broke, Sick…  there are all kinds of responses to this season, not all of them Merry and Bright.  Our minister gave a really good sermon on this topic right before our WISE gathering.

Something that came up for one woman was acknowledged by many.  There comes a time, often, when we are no longer the hub of the magic.  We are "retired" from being at the center of the festivities, as kids marry and move away, go to the in-laws instead, or just decide they don't really like Christmas.  Maybe we've lost a spouse, or have moved to a smaller house, or just don't feel like continuing with all the hoopla.  Sometimes Christmas sucks.

We decided there is a degree of freedom in stepping back, but there is also the possibility of a great deal of grief when our role changes, often not of our choosing.

My "kids" still come to our home for the holidays and I am grateful for that.  Yet there are times when I feel sad about losing the place of importance and primacy in my grown sons lives.  We were so close when they were young and my life pretty much revolved around them.  Gladly so.  Yet, the successful outcome of all of those years of dedication is bittersweet…they grew strong, independent, and capable of creating families and lives of their own.  

There are times when I miss the "old days" and indulge in a bit of longing for more closeness and intimacy at times.  I feel a little sorry for myself and that feels good -- to acknowledge my sadness and aloneness.  Then I dust myself off and realize the days of holding them in my arms, tousling their hair, hearing their most secret hopes, dreams, frustrations and griefs may be gone, but...

My job isn't really finished.  I continue to teach and show them the way, just as I always have.  I continue to model for them what I hope for them to experience as "elders" -- a life that is lived at a slower pace, but one still filled with passion and purpose.  

I can still reach out to them in ways they can accept now -- with a text or a phone call or a Facebook post, a small gift, a word of encouragement, a reminiscence, a loving hug, a weekly family dinner.  I am there for them, a constant in their busy lives, even when they don't notice.

I am there, just as they will be for their own kids, in some far-off future Christmas season when they will shed a tear, too, for what has passed, what has changed when they are no longer the Center of the Universe for their grown children.

And that's as it should be; it's just hard sometimes.  Our work is to acknowledge new realities and adjust accordingly, with love for them…and ourselves…at Christmas and always.

At least, that's the view from here… ©

CHOOSE HOPE

This morning, watching the spectacular sunrise, I find my emotions walking the tightrope between despair and hope.  Life is so precious and so sad.  It's hard not to sound like a cliche-writing hack when one contemplates the fleeting nature of this human existence.  So, I'm not going to put many words to the swirling emotions I am feeling, shared by a community in shock and grief.

You've likely heard.  Our community was the "top story" yesterday across the nation.  Another school shooting, this one ten miles from my home, in a neighboring town where many of my friends live, where their children go to school, where some of their children go to that school.

I went to a candlelight vigil last night at our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship.  We sang songs of comfort and strength, lit candles, held each other in love as grief washed over us.

This morning one girl is dead; the boy (who was by all accounts a popular well-liked athlete and leader) who used a gun on his classmates, and then himself, is also dead.  One boy is in serious condition, one boy and two girls in critical condition in area hospitals.  For all of them I feel such sorrow; for their families I feel such anguish; for all of us I feel such pain, numbed by disbelief.

And numbed by the almost commonplace nature of the event.  Our local first responders were remarkable -- but then they had trained for this.  The school teachers and students themselves were remarkable -- but then they had trained for this.  We now train ourselves for how to react to school shootings, so common have they become.

I won't go on my rant, my deeply-held belief that our national fascination with readily available firearms is partly to blame.  I know it's complicated -- not long ago another small local community endured the stabbing death of a student at school.  I know it's complicated -- funding for mental health services is so often on the chopping block when it's time to balance the budget.  I know it's complicated -- we model violence as conflict resolution for our kids with entertainments like video games, TV dramas, and outrageously gratuitously violent movies; we model it in our real-life wars and even with the specter of angry discourse in our political debates where anger and fear and intractable positioning seem to be the order of the day.

Still….what I see mostly around me everywhere are people of good intentions, who love their families, work hard, laugh together and want to find peace, happiness, and meaning in their lives.  This we share and this we must elevate to a cause for celebration of our shared humanity, even in the face of tragedy.

I won't fall into despair.  I choose hope.

At least, that's the view from here… ©

UPDATE:  One of the girls in critical condition died October 26, 2014.  Her parents chose to give the gift of life to others through organ donation.  And the grief goes on….

UPDATE:  On October 31, 2014, the other girl in critical condition died.

UPDATE:  On November 6, 2014, the shooting victim who was wounded, but recovering, went home from the hospital.

UPDATE:  On November 7, 2014, the last victim who had remained in critical condition died.

"SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME..."

Here we are, right in the middle of the fa-la-la-la-la Christmas season, caught up in shopping, baking, decorating, planning, organizing, socializing....a time when our hearts sometimes have a hard time finding "Christmas Spirit" amidst the "to do" lists that this holiday has become.  And then an act so unspeakable and at odds with the season of peace and love shakes us to the core and focuses our attention away from ourselves and our petty troubles.

On Friday, a crisp blue sky day in Newtown, Connecticut, a troubled young man, carrying at least two rapid-fire weapons, entered Sandy Hook Elementary School and started shooting.  Within only a couple of minutes, 6 adults and 20 children, between the ages of 5-10, were dead, as was the shooter, who took his own life.

Facts are slowly emerging of acts of heroism by teachers and school staff, whose first thoughts were to keep their students safe.  Facts are slowly emerging about the perpetrator, who had also killed his mother in their home before descending upon the school, who seems to have suffered his whole life with significant mental health issues; as we so often hear, he was intellectually brilliant but socially withdrawn, even pathologically "shy" and reclusive; a loner.

My first thought, as is my first thought every time there is an eruption of gun violence (which is frequent), is that troubled people with access to guns leave more carnage in their wakes than those who do not have a readily available gun.  I am an unequivocal proponent of gun control.   Within hours of the shooting, I re-joined the Brady Campaign to End Gun Violence and wrote to my Senators and Congressman.  I might finally be giving in to my frequent impulse to "get involved" in an issue or cause again.  I've always known this would be the one.  For me, it's the only action I can take to try to mediate the overwhelming sadness and frustration I feel when something like this happens, something I believe could be prevented.

But right now, I don't have any energy for "organizing".   Instead, I am reminded of a saying that comforts me:  "We are spiritual beings having a human experience."  Humans are flawed, vulnerable, confused, loving, compassionate, violent, crazy, amazing creatures.  So, my energy is going into creating havens of peace for the human experiences in my little world. My energy is going into advocating for "radical kindness" within myself and others I know.  My meditation practice teaches me to "stay in the moment", to be aware of the vast cosmic consciousness that exists in and around us, connecting us all, and that the only answer to the troubles of the human experience is to be kind, to love, to act with compassion.

There is a meditation in the Tibetan tradition called Tonglen, where one invites on the in-breath the suffering of another into our consciousness and on the out-breath sends out love, peace, and healing to that person.  I have been practicing this meditation since Friday, both in sitting silently and at random times during the day when I am going about my life's busy-ness.   Meeting violent, unspeakable acts with compassion for those impacted (which on one level is all of us) is the only response I know right now.

For Christians, this is the season celebrating Jesus' birth.  He was an example of love and acceptance and also acted to upset the status quo.  His example might be one we can  emulate in the days and months ahead, beginning as we gather around our Christmas trees holding those we love with special care.

So, my prayer is this:  May all those little children and the adults who gave their lives for them, the families left to mourn, and the person who fired the gun, all find peace in the compassionate, loving presence of Divine Consciousness.

At least, that's the view from here....©