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
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Tag: blog
Oh, Sweet Season
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!
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Peace and Play
I grew up in a New England shoreline town, so the assumption of many who meet me is that I’ve always been a beach lover and sun worshipper. Not true. In fact, I avoided the beach for years, especially when I hit the awkwardness of adolescence. That young girl grew up hating her body and trying to get people to like and love her for being smart and hardworking. I was that girl who avoided pool parties, beach dates with the cool kids (who seemed to like me), and any and all outdoor activities that required exposure of anything more than my smile, mind, and veiled confidence. After all, my sisters –both several years older– had by virtue of birth order and the endowment of petite frames thanks to our mom’s DNA, earned the coveted positions of the cute and perky one and the tiny and tenacious one. This girl, I was the fair-skinned, bigger-boned, studious one. Needless to say, the beach and bathing suits were quite far removed from my wheelhouse.
I often say and think that time and maturity are the great equalizers in life. (I say maturity rather than age because I no longer think wisdom derives solely from the number of years lived; there is a marked difference between growing older and growing wiser.) Those great equalizers are finally forcing me to realize that I’m the one who often stands in my own way. Giving in to those feelings of body loathing and shame and obsessing over how others, namely my peers, “viewed” me prevented me from experiencing two of the most important elements that the beach and ocean offer: peace and play.
As I walked the beach of Siesta a couple of weeks ago, sand in between my toes and a slight ocean breeze caressing my 61-year-old sun-kissed cheeks, I thought about that girl who missed out on so much peace and play in her youth. As I sat down at the base of one of the intricately crafted sand sculptures, I leaned into the moment. I had become the agent of change in my own world. Peace and play were present. How lovely to realize that it was not too late for me to welcome both into my life!
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Time & Love: Gifts to Myself
61?! I spent yesterday crying on and off about how little I had accomplished in these six-plus decades. However, in the middle of the night, I began to receive birthday greetings from friends across the globe, and I decided to stop beating myself up with my own expectations and sense of failure. Good thing because what a waste of an extra hour as we set the clocks back! I’d like to attribute that extra hour on MY DAY as divine intervention and a dire reminder.
The greatest gift ever given to me has been time. My mom was the ultimate purveyor, especially to her family. So, it was bittersweet that as she neared death, she shared with me something that weighed on her –neither a resentment nor a regret-but rather a missed opportunity. As we discussed every little and big meaningful moment in her life, she admitted that she wished she had been kinder to herself. She wished she had taken time to love herself.
“Don’t always put yourself last,” she warned. “If you always show others that they come first and that what they need or want matters more, then in the end, you will be put last and come last. You will take a back seat in your own life.” I remember how my heart sank and how I hoped that I had made my mother feel important and loved. I always saw my mom as the driver and the conductor in her (our) family until that moment. I thought then and still ruminate to this day about how I treated my mother, my best friend, and my confidante. And now, more than a decade after her passing, I realize what she was trying to tell me: Don’t seek validation from others. It was not until she stared death in the face that she realized she wanted to live –not for everyone else for she had ‘willingly’ put herself last – but for herself. She had waited to show others that she was important and that she valued herself first. And alas, how she chose to experience her death– the where, the how long, and in whose presence and absence- that was her way of saying, “This last chapter of life is about me. I come first now.”
So, as my birthday comes to a close, I’m gifting myself time and love. After all, isn’t that all we ever have? One is running out, and one is finally growing.
❤
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Such a Challenge
One of my favorite people in the world is another Scorpio sister; she and I met nearly two decades ago when I was teaching middle school English at a small private school. I had the pleasure of having her son, a quick-witted and vibrant young man who has since made his way in the world fearlessly and whom I am proud to call friend. Both my soul sister and her son –actually, the entire family including her husband (the “punniest” man I know), their fur baby Lua, as well as their eclectic and completely welcoming groups of friends – have expanded my world in myriad ways, but no way greater than sharing their deeply-seated love of exploration and their zest for living and loving fully.
While my friend and her husband have been in Europe on another adventure, they graciously offered me their home in the Pacific northwest (dog, plants, and roses galore). “Work” never feels like work when I’m on an adventure of sorts. From learning to use an electric mower to visiting Williamette wine country to outings where food, beverage, and above all else laughter were abundant, the months of September and October to this point have been full. My soul is lighter. My heart is fuller. My mind is clearer. And for more times lately than I can remember, I have felt like I – just me – am enough. If truth be told, I might even be too much in the very best ways.
I’m making memories, satisfying curiosities, and challenging myself most days. Those days, these days, are indeed sublime. Life itself has been challenging most of the past six decades. I’m going to challenge it back!
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Don’t Count on It
Don’t Count on It
After six decades on this planet, I’ve learned, and I’m still learning. Don’t count on anything. Don’t count on anyone. Don’t count your blessings, your chickens, or sheep. Actually, in all honesty, don’t count.
I’m not saying this glibly. I’ve given this serious thought for quite some time. Today, this idea of freeing myself from counting and quantifying is at the forefront, as I sit looking out on a sky vacillating between sunny and foreboding. I’ve been waiting for a very long time for the roosters to come home to roost, the chickens to hatch, my blessings to abound and multiply, and for the sheep to put me to sleep. Alas, none of the aforementioned has happened. Alas? Perhaps, although now I’m thinking that these “failures” may be fortuitous after all.
Lucky may not be exactly what I feel about missing the mark on these fronts; relief may be the more fitting description of how I’m feeling at present. It’s oddly soothing to concede to the notion that nothing is guaranteed. Today, as I look to the sky and wonder, “Will the rain subside and the sun come out again?,” I breathe in and realize that it is better to have no expectations.
I have forever believed that people say what they mean and mean what they say. I have forever believed that good things come to those who wait. I have forever believed that if I give enough of myself to others, they will see my worth. Now, I know. I cannot count on people meaning what they say. I cannot count on good things happening if I’m patient. I cannot count on anyone actually seeing my value. I cannot count on anything or anyone to love me into success or worth. I count on nothing. I do have faith, though. I have faith that I’ll see my worth, learn to value and accept myself, and love myself less critically and with more compassion.
I do hope. I do hope.
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Never Comes Later
Revelations of the New Year
As kids, many of us thought that the twelve days of Christmas were the dozen days leading up to Christmas. We smiled, hummed the tune, confusing the lyrics all the while (were the swans singing or swimming?); and then, one day, some of us dug a little deeper about the carol’s history because, well, curiosity and exploration gnawed at those of us with inquiring minds. If you grew up as I did – not knowing much about the intricacies and historical details of Judeo-Christian beliefs because your parents of somewhat contradictory faiths opted to let the Golden Rule guide their parenting and your ultimate disposition as a member of the human race – you then decided it was time to learn the lyrics and the meaning behind them. After all, you needed a bit of trivia to add to adult holiday conversations.
The twelve days of Christmas begin on the 25th of December and end on January 6th, the Epiphany. The days leading up to Christmas are consumerist fanfare, in my opinion; Christmas day and the days following Christmas are the magic. I say this not as a religious being but as a sixty-year-old woman who realizes that the days are growing numbered in many ways; and perhaps therein lies the reason that as we age, we look back and savor memories, especially those that have been created during the holiday seasons.
The second day of Christmas, as I stood filling the carafe with water to make a full pot of coffee because more than one lone imbiber of the brew was in the house, two turtle doves flew into my mind. Doves. The symbol for peace in most literature. However, two turtle doves represent the Old and New Testaments in Judeo Christianity in the carol. Then, on the the fifth day of Christmas as I sat looking out on a very gray and rain-soaked esplanade on the Charles, I heard a very humorous cacophony of cymbals and voices in my head (along with every other imaginable bell and whistle) squealing “five golden rings.” Were the rings the greatest gift? Why such emphasis on those rings? Is it because they were gold, precious, and coveted? Um, maybe. Here’s the bubble-bursting tidbit, though: the rings refer to five ring-necked pheasants. And suddenly, the memory of family huddled and scrunched into Gram & Gramp’s living room belting out “five golden rings” with the accompanying charade-like gesture becomes an even funnier reminiscence of our crazy, wonderful brood in simpler times.
Today, we’re nearly through the twelve days, the 10th day to be exact; and neither of my friends, Sylvia nor Erma, is contemplating the literal or figurative meaning of those leaping lords. Frankly, I’m not either. Instead, my focus is the new year and Epiphany. The ladies have danced; the maids have milked; the swans have swum; the geese have laid; the rings, well, they remain gold; the birds have called; the French hens are now multi-lingual; the doves have soared and now peacefully coexist; and finally, the pear tree still stands. Tomorrow and the following day, the pipers will pipe, and the drummers will drum, respectively. I, along with Sylvia and Erma, will both lament and celebrate the end of the holiday season. And then what?
Twelve days and then the Epiphany. The revelation. Whether or not you “believe” and subscribe to the basic tenets of Judeo-Christian dogma, one truth that cannot be denied is that there exists a multitude of chances ahead of us to do better, be better, live more fully, and love harder. Twelve months. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds. Epiphany takes on new meaning this year for me and all midlife women who have awakened to new chapters. There is time. We are not too old, and it is not too late, but the clock ticks. What are we waiting for?
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Home for the Holidays
Wherever she is. Wherever she is going. It doesn’t matter at all. She has finally figured it out. She IS home! She has been wandering and searching and pining for home.
She looked in the mirror this morning and discovered that she was home. She had arrived.
Home for the holidays has entirely new meaning when you realize that you’ve been carrying it with you all along.
***********
“It was when I stopped searching for home within others / and lifted the foundations of home within myself / I found there were no roots more intimate / than those between a mind and body / that have decided to be whole.” — Rupi Kaur
#homeiswheretheheartis
#becoming
"ARE YOU THERE, ERMA? IT'S ME, SYLVIA." 