Tag: selfcare

Mother Nature is My Purple

It’s a gray day here in New England, as many of them are this time of year. The snowfall is tapering off; and Mother Nature has left an adequate blanket of white to remind us that (1) she’s in charge; and (2) nothing is permanent. The wind blows and creates mini dunes in otherwise unscathed parts of the neighborhood (although quite frankly and much to my chagrin, there are few untouched and undeveloped parcels left here).

It’s the thirteenth of February already. Anyone else convinced that as we age that damn clock seems to tick faster, and the pages on the calendar are ripped off even faster? I’ve lost a lot since 2020. We all have. Time especially. I’m thinking about this because? Because I’m alone. It’s quiet. The silence is so loud that all I can hear is the wind blowing and the clock ticking. Am I wasting time? Maybe. Some may think so, and often I agree, but not today. I think the universe gives us days like today expressly for the purpose of pausing. There is an inherent need for quiet and for rest, and yet most of us don’t know what to do with ourselves; lack of activity equates to laziness, yes? No. Not at all. In fact, I only wish my mind would rest as much as my body does.  The ticking of the clock isn’t measuring my steps, my hours online, the miles I’ve ridden or driven. The near-deafening strike that the clock-hand marks as each second passes reminds me today that there’s a lot left to do, more to become – and yet I mosey and we   dilly-dally – we squander our time consuming ourselves with the notion that we must be busy. We  are so busy. Too busy to call. Too busy to write. Too busy to stop and listen to the wind blow, to hear the icy snow tapping on the windows as it begs to come in, and to recognize our inner voices when they tell us to rest both body and mind.

I’m listening today. It’s one of the “busiest” afternoons of this type that I’ve had in a while. Imagine that? Mother Nature knows. And let me just say that I’m not surprised she knows; after all, she is a woman.

Today, Mother Nature is my purple.

(Video rights @debra_coetzer; Music rights Lady Gaga & Mark Ronson)

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?

 

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

Lenses of Growth

“I’m beginning…again,” Sylvia laments.

Erma, ever the mom, scolds her friend, “Grow up, my friend. If they can do it, you can, too.”

There is quite a bit in this life that makes me cry. Yep, I’m a crier. Tears flow when I’m angry, when I’m sad, when I’m disappointed, and even when I’m overcome with joy (especially when I’m bowled over by something seemingly irrelevant). Forty-eight full hours of doing nothing but enjoying their company; listening to them laugh while watching replays of Veep; and being the doting and maybe even mildly overbearing mom.

I’m driving away now, and I’m smiling and sobbing all at once. They are delighted and happily-at-home in their own place, navigating life as they wish, and making this mixed-up world of ours –of mine – make sense at the moment. I’ve done a lot wrong, but this, this is indeed my legacy. In this moment, I don’t give a f#@* where I live, what I have in the bank, who hates me or loves me. I’m not writing for followers. I’m not editing a Goddamn piece of these last forty-eight hours. It’s all just perfect.

THEY have grown-up. Now, it’s my turn.

*******

This is 60!

That Smarts

“You are going nowhere fast, Sylvia. That may sound harsh, but it’s the truth,” Erma cautions her best friend.

Sylvia could feel those words going into her core like a knife. No anesthesia. No sugar-coating. Erma, never one to mince words with Sylvia –the woman to whom she vowed brutal honesty and unwavering support –was certainly living up to her end of that deal. With a tone of equal parts disappointment (in herself and Erma) and reluctant acceptance, Sylvia replies, “Ouch. That really smarts!”

Smarts. It is a curious expression, don’t you agree? Smart is generally associated with intelligence and  sharpness – both in appearance and intellect. “He’s such a smart dresser.” “She has such a wry sense of humor and can be a real smart aleck!”  The verb though is a whole different ball of wax. “That smarts.” That hurts. It stings. When something smarts, well, it is the result of a painful remark or misstep. In this case, Sylvia feels wounded, almost bitten. She knows that Erma’s comment is meant to be constructive in some way; but at that moment, Sylvia cannot figure out her friend’s intention. The truth hurts; of that, she is abundantly aware.

“Erma, what do you mean? Why would you say that? After all, I’ve been on-the-go since the beginning of the year pretty much,” Sylvia questions. “I’m going somewhere. “

Recognizing the hurt and defensiveness in her friend’s tone, Erma realizes her statement demands clarification. “Nowhere. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. What I should have said is that you always amaze me. No plan. No painstakingly contrived itinerary. You’ll go anywhere! Anywhere is nowhere without a name, a ticket, or a place to call your own.”

That smarts. Sylvia decides to pull out the knife, dress the wound, and begin again in this moment.

“There would have been more I love yous … more I’m sorrys … more I’m listenings … but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute of it … look at it and really see it … try it on … live it … exhaust it … and never give that minute back until there was nothing left of it.” ~Erma Bombeck

The Great Escape

We are nearly halfway through the year, and I realize that I’ve been running. Running from? Running to? Perhaps, both. Perhaps, neither.

Looking back and assessing the various mental paths, physical landscapes, and women-centric bonding experiences that I’ve explored since this year began, I realize that “the great escape” might just be that which isn’t planned at all. An unexpected visit from a friend. An impromptu walk through a small town center while en route to another destination unknown. An afternoon on the water. A cup of coffee enjoyed slowly and in solitude. All escapes.

“Maybe that’s it, Erma,” Sylvia realizes in what has quickly transformed from merely thinking out loud to an a-ha moment.

“What? What’s it, Syl?” Erma asks.

“We don’t need to search or plan our escapes. There are moments, hours, and even more prolonged periods of time that present us with escape from both the tedium and those worry-filled and angst-ridden situations that could otherwise throw us into a tailspin. It takes a second. A breath. Inhale. Exhale. A glance at our surroundings. Those are the momentary detours that can save us.”

Erma, considering and digesting her best friend’s espousal of what it means to escape, raises her hand to stop Sylvia from further commentary. “Enough. I get it. Let’s just bask in this instant.”

That’s escape! Indeed.


***********************
To embrace the present moment intentionally and be who you are where you are at a time when you could easily succumb to the woes of the world and the expectations of others — the great escape.
(~K. Morgan)

Music: Jasmine Thompson, Great Escape

Escape

Getting It Done

What do you want to do with the rest of your life?” Erma asks Sylvia earlier today over their ritualistic morning coffee.

“This last chapter, you mean? I only have one thing in mind,” Sylvia asserts.

Erma, knowing full well that her best friend can be introspective and prophetic as well as bold and bawdy on some unexpected occasions, awaits a profound response.

“I’m going to do it all myself for myself, whatever it is,” Sylvia avows.

Wednesday wisdom from the gals: Have fun. Be serious. Make mistakes. Dare. Live with both intention and wild abandon. Do it all for you because in the end you are all you have. You are your best and most important project!
******************
It takes half your life before you discover life is a do-it-yourself project.
~Napoleon Hill

#diyprojects #livewithintention #over50women #over50andfabulous #midlifewomen #midlifeblogger

Do-it-yourself

Missing from Me

It’s Monday, another Monday. Another day of this journey called life, another step forward (baby or giant), because every new day IS always a step in the right direction.

I follow your journeys; and I simply want you to know that if today is a bad day because you or your loved one is out-of-sorts and ornery, it will pass; if today started off with you feeling tired and depleted, believe it or not you have more left in you; if you woke up to a mess – emotional chaos or surroundings in complete disarray – you will survive this. You are not alone. If you crave a moment to yourself of solitude or wild abandon, grant yourself that one moment at the very least. That moment may be all that you need to regroup, to snap yourself out of self-pity, and to breathe a little more life into your soul. That moment will sustain you.

And if none of the above seems remotely helpful, I’ll leave you this. Nothing lasts forever. Happily and sadly. You will treasure it all and wish for one more day, hour, minute, or second. Savor every bump in the path, bruise to your ego, chuckle about sheer nonsense, and unprovoked smile. Take snapshots of them – you will miss all of them!

Love to you all. And yes, they are missing from me.
❤

Mae Day

She loved her first coffee uninterrupted; cheese danish or a plain donut if she absolutely had to have something to eat for breakfast; impromptu drives after dinner with Dad down to the beach to sit on the sea wall; anything to do with her ten grandchildren; and feeling needed and purposeful. She was a quiet force to be reckoned with as she grew older and learned that she mattered as much as the next person. In many ways, my mother came to live life more fully and openly as she neared death. Death was a liberation of sorts. The quintessential peacemaker and peacekeeper realized that she could not be the backbone and voice for others, although she would always champion and advocate for children until the end. In between radiation and chemo or doctors’ visits at Stanford, she and I would often walk over to Lucille Packard Children’s cancer center. It was there on those walks especially that she offered up herself and her own mortality if it meant a child would be spared suffering. That was my mother.

Thirteen years it has been, but today I will think of the seventy she had on this earth and the forty-six plus I had with her. We lived a lot of life together; and although I’ll always think it was never enough, there is a bit more space for solace and joy in my heart this year knowing Donna and my father, her forever love Sam, are spending another year together again.

May Day, indeed. Donna Mae, it is no coincidence that you left us on the first day of the month, the first truly beautiful month of the spring season when flowers bloom, skies clear, and everything comes to life. You were and will always be my forever spring. The memories we shared are a constant source of love and strength.

Hope you and Dad are still kicking up your heels and wowing the audience as you take a turn on the dance floor.

https://youtu.be/RV-Z1YwaOiw

Mrs. Claus Knows

“Two weeks from today, Syl,” Erma announces.

Sylvia, somewhat preoccupied by deadlines and preparations for the upcoming week, asks, “Two weeks? Til what?”

“Christmas! Honestly, where are you these days? You’ve got me a little worried.”

Sylvia, with pen and another to-do list in hand, chuckles at the thought of Santa, Christmas, elves, and all the rest that overwhelms the actual spirit of the holiday. She knows all too well that it was her mother (and other women in her life) who made the magic. She decides to make one list to get her through the next fourteen days: Naughty & Nice. Don’t make her choose, Santa. She knows exactly what she deserves!

Her life is not yours to judge. Only Mrs. Claus knows what every woman faces and overcomes during this most joyous season, and sadly, it’s not all joy!

“Still in many 21st century homes, there is ‘the taken-for-granted notion that a mother is in charge of the tracking and the knowing and the thinking and the planning and the feeding and the caring and the checking and the doing unless she has worked to make other arrangements (which then entail more knowing and more thinking and more tracking and more doing),’ Darcy Lockman writes in “All the Rage: Mothers, Fathers, and the Myth of Equal Partnership.”
(https://www.cnn.com/2022/12/06/opinions/holiday-labor-toll-on-women-alaimo/index.html)

Mrs. Claus has my list!