A fifty-something year-old woman who is learning that sometimes all we have is ourselves, so it's important not to get lost. And if you get lost, sometimes a little bit of social media can save you for a while while you find your way back, your way forward, or your way out and onto the new you.
“Memories are either comfort and joy or grief and sorrow.”
“No, they are both, and at this time of year, they are everything,” Erma chimes in.
“Not everything, Erma. I don’t need them to be everything today. Comfort and joy will fit the bill just fine. A little bit of kindling or better yet the spark to ignite comfort and joy,” Sylvia offers in a peaceful, yearning tone.
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy! **************** At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us. ~Albert Schweitzer ****************
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” Is it though? I don’t know about you, but every single Christmas, though blanketed in tradition, has been markedly different. Not better or worse, but different. I have done as much shopping and preparing as I am going to do this year. A lot less than last year, […]
As July comes to a close and the first eve of August holds all of the promise and uncertainty of a new month, I’m coming to terms, yet again, with changes, new struggles and obstacles, and reconfigured ideas of what hope and promise look like.
July has been a very full and fast month, no stops and starts, just more than the usual dose of an air that hangs with the thickness of reconciliation – learning to temper the extremes, the heat of summer with the blasts of indoor cooling; the wavering lust for either sunrises or sunsets; and the yearning to be social in the face of a gnawing desire for solitude.
What’s new? Learning to be more than okay with uncertainty!
“Let July be July. Let August be August. And let yourself just be even in the uncertainty.” ~ Morgan Harper Nichols
Hope just isn’t a dangerous thing; it’s the most bittersweet part of my midlife journey most days. I’m no longer expecting smooth transitions as I make and experience changes to my life. In fact, I brace myself for a fair amount of sting and hurt as I navigate a meandering journey to self-love (which if I allow myself to be completely honest is really the conscious act of moving away from self-critical behaviors that zap me of energy and opportunities for joy).
Bitter and sweet. They are never evenly balanced. I think that between the two is where the majority of my midlife evolution is occurring.
“I deserve my lollipop and I deserve my toothache.” ~Khayri R.R. Woulfe
Summer has arrived in full force on the Cape, and nothing announces it more than the glorious blooming of hydrangeas everywhere.
Simple things. A sunny day. A bouquet fresh from the yard. Hydrangeas have become my favorite, perhaps because they were hers. It’s funny though because symbolically, especially in literature, hydrangeas signify opulence and arrogance; they are indeed a showy flower with an unparalleled presence in a garden. She, however, was so modest and humble.
As I watched the fluffy, delicate balls of purple, pink, and periwinkle wilt in the heat, I reflected on the contradiction. I realized that her choice of the flower was quite simple, two-fold I think. First, the blooms are undeniably beautiful; and second, they are incredibly resilient. I’d like to think that as I age, wilt, and weather in this life, I also learn that there is intrinsic beauty in the ability to rebound and rise. Deep down maybe my mother knew her worth all along. Her resilience became much of her legacy. I’m determined to keep that tradition alive.
Off to gather more blooms and share them with the next generation.
Sure does appeal to me, but can I get there easily? Who knows? I don’t, but that’s the point, isn’t it?
This Saturday morning inspired me, as I sipped coffee on the deck and listened to the cacophony performed by all of the woodland creatures and birds calling out their unique tunes – none of them in sync, by the way, but somehow the dissonance created a melody all their own. I was listening to the sweet season of summer (both literally and figuratively), and for those moments, I realized that my life didn’t lack appeal or promise. It was just meant to be lived simply and peacefully, preferably in great pajamas!
Special thanks to a dear friend who reminded me that I can dance my way back into life –no matter where I am – as long as I take the time to hear the music!
I’ve been traveling pretty much non-stop since mid-January – caregiving, visiting old friends, making new friends, discovering and uncovering, and above all else, trying to make changes to a life that stole away parts of me long forgotten – and slowly, I’ve become the main character in my story. There have been a fair number of plot twists, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. My story might not seem all that interesting to anyone else, but I must say it’s been keeping me excited (often in an unsettling and even uncomfortable way); engaged, and committed to writing and turning a page or two each day.
I’m no longer journaling about a stranger’s life, the woman I had thought lost or who had disappeared altogether. I’m living on the outside, not waiting for life and all of the feelings it conjures daily to happen to me so that I can react. I’m experiencing everything from the mundane to the extraordinary; and for the first time in a very long time, I’m more interested in me and the woman I’m becoming than the woman I was! ********* Screw the mid-life crisis Go have a mid-life spa day A mid-life quickie A midlife tiramisu But whatever you do DON’T give in to mid-life blues! -Sanjo Jendayi
What to do when I’m plagued with writer’s block? I could turn to Walt. Or Ralph. Or Sylvia, Jane, or Emily. I might find inspiration in Maya, justice in Harper, empowerment in Betty, or fun and fantasy with the likes of Lewis or Tolkien. No one is going to get me today and speak to the unsettled me within like Nora though! Oh, how I miss her some days, especially after indulging in two of my favorite rom-coms of all time, “You’ve Got Mail” and “Sleepless in Seattle.” And for the record, reading a bit of my “sister’s” stuff always makes me feel so much better about my neck, not to mention other things. ☕️📝✏🍷📝✏☕️📝✏🍷📝✏☕️📝 Here are some questions I am constantly noodling over: Do you splurge or do you hoard? Do you live every day as if it’s your last, or do you save your money on the chance you’ll live twenty more years? Is life too short, or is it going to be too long? Do you work as hard as you can, or do you slow down to smell the roses? And where do carbohydrates fit into all this? Are we really all going to spend our last years avoiding bread, especially now that bread in America is so unbelievably delicious? And what about chocolate? ~Nora Ephron, I Feel Bad about My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman #over50andfabulous
I remember thinking that I wouldn’t survive without her. A minute, an hour, a day, a month, a year. Now, it’s fifteen years, and there are so many times when I still have to convince myself that her absence is real.
What do I miss most about her? God, so many things. Her wisdom. Her caring, blue eyes. Her voice, quite often the voice of reason and pragmatism. Her quiet strength coupled with an endless supply of empathy and compassion. Her fierce instinct to protect those she loved.
Mom was selfless to a fault, though. She forgave quickly and reserved judgment even when someone deserved a bit (or a lot) of criticism or antipathy. She didn’t hold a grudge, most likely because her energies were needed and valued elsewhere. I truly wish she had saved more of everything for herself, especially as she neared death. Instead, she dug in deeper. All that made Mom a great mother, wife, grandmother, sister, and friend endured until her last breath.
She was perfectly imperfect. In the nearly forty-seven years I had the privilege of her presence and love, one of the things I came to admire most about my mother is that she would listen to everyone else’s opinions of how she should act, react, and deal with others, and then she would follow her heart (especially when it came to anything or anyone she believed in or cared for deeply). A woman of conviction and depth.
Fifteen years since that May Day when she left so many of us to figure it out for ourselves. Perhaps that was the greatest lesson she taught – each of us has to figure it out on his/her/their own. Yes, it takes a village to get through this life; to confront death, however, we must accept that we are on a solo journey. In the end, we must make peace with ourselves.
Mom, I know it now. I have learned it the hard way. Perhaps we all must learn it that way. The “it”? Happiness is fleeting, but peace– real inner peace– that feeling of calm when yearning and desire take a backseat to an unyielding acceptance of self, that’s what allows us to say goodbye.
Until we meet again, Mom. I’ll see you in my dreams, hear your voice in my head, and look at Chandler and see all that was good, kind, and loving in you. Always in my heart.
He didn’t wear dress shoes often, but when he did, he wore a good pair of Bass Weejuns or cordovans. He preferred quality to quantity when it came to shoes and life. I’m thinking so much about that today, five years since he left this world, five years since he let go of my hand to rejoin Donna, my mom and the love of his life.
This year, though not nearly as piercing, the pain (which some know as grief but I refer to as an abiding love) endures. My thoughts and memories are more abundant for some reason and in many ways clearer. That may or may not be true, and I’m certain that many will take issue with my claim that the passing of time brings stability and comfort to one who suffers tremendous loss, but I’m sticking with it. I’m clearer. After five years, I am finally breathing a bit easier, inhaling and exhaling regularly without holding my breath in-between; am more forgiving of myself and others (at least I’m trying); and the internal video in my mind’s eye of Dad has been edited to project more pictures of him talking, laughing, engaging and living than of him sitting in the wheelchair smiling and merely surviving as a semblance of the man who lived and loved so actively before Alzheimer’s. Oddly, today as the reel played in my mind, it became more colorful; lo and behold, there was Sam –front and center, at my induction into National Honor Society, at my college graduation, at my rehearsal dinner, and so many other events – wearing his Weejuns.
Of course, over the years, Dad’s original Weejuns (otherwise known as penny loafers) have disappeared. (He likely had two or three more pairs, soled and re-soled) over the course of his fifty-one years of marriage to Mom.) The originals are seen here in this photo of him and his beloved canine companion, Shiner. Oh, how he cared fully and deeply for anything and anyone he loved. He held himself responsible for and accountable to their care. He took it very seriously, as evidenced by thirteen-year-old Sam’s expression – the countenance of a Jewish boy who had just been burdened and blessed with the job of being a man. This photo of that young man wearing those well-worn weejuns has left me smiling and crying and so very grateful. My dad, one of the most humble and kind-hearted men, knew the value of a good sole… and a good soul.
His memory– all of the memories he shared with me through his storytelling and through the creation of those we made together over more than five decades as father and daughter– is an eternal blessing. I am still learning so very much about love, life, and the unquantifiable value of a good soul.
All of us should be as aware as he was of the good fortune of living a life so fully that we wear out only our soles and not our souls!
"ARE YOU THERE, ERMA? IT'S ME, SYLVIA." 