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Where Danger Lurks, Deep Inside

Ah, the slow-crawling days of deepest winter. Lead-gray, sodden, and short, these are the days that incline us to stay inside and shut tight the door. In the sanctuary of home, we turn inward, to examine…what? Maybe, our plans and hopes for the year. Or, perhaps the insides of our hearts. Or, if we are brave enough, we might face the deepest, darkest, and oft-ignored secrets of:

The insides of our closets.

That last one can outflank an innocent soul in the work of a moment. If you think, like I did, that you can escape the menace of creeping closet chaos by slamming the door and feigning other priorities, well, your closet may indicate otherwise.

Mine did. Turn away at your peril, the snarky space seemed to snarl. If you are skating dangerously close to the same dire straits, I offer the fellow sufferer three key indicators as guideposts. You might need to clean out your closet if:

1. You strain a pectoral muscle trying to shove the hangers apart. Unless you are training for a bodybuilding competition or lifting large bales of hay one at a time, you probably never strain your chest muscles in that fashion. Picture yourself with right arm extended, palm vertical and flat, muscles taut as you give a determined shove to the left, across your chest, in your best effort to make enough open space to extricate one recalcitrant garment. Owwww! There are so many hangers in there, the clothes are frozen solid, standing together in solidarity like a giant, upright, impenetrable pile of laundry for a family of 10. Right pec, left pec, shove whichever direction you may, doesn’t matter. Something, or sadly, several somethings, have gotta go.

2. You reach for that elegant handmade black cross-body, and another purse falls out on your head. This stunning, oversized (of course!) leaping tote achieves a decent bounce, landing precisely where the innocent cat lazily lounged on the bed just an instant ago. This is hurtful. And I don’t mean on the thin skin that anchors my hair onto my (thick, I’ve been told) skull. The pride is wounded, for this is the one section of the closet I felt certain was under control. A year ago (or three? or five?) I delighted in the acquisition of a row of sectioned plastic shelf units, ideal for my purse collection, of which I am inordinately fond. After a quick purge of a few non-starters, I cheerily stacked the bags inside these efficient little units, displaying them by type and size, upright, visible, and ready for action. The end result was so smashing that I texted “before and after” photos to the most methodical and organized soul of my close acquaintance, then basked in her congratulatory response. What happened after that recedes into the mists, of course, but somehow, overcrowding supplanted order. The closet was thereby forced to eject its own evidence.

3. The cat tells no tales, but emerges victorious. Bending to snare a pair of boots stuck under something on the closet floor, I turned to see the cat freeze, alert and twitching, at the ready. She makes a furtive dive into a dark far corner, out of sight. When she reappeared, she wasn’t exactly licking her lips, but her strut and tail angle communicated a conquest that she could not share aloud. Ick. Ugh. Yuk. This particular closet abuts an angled wall and, for some strange reason, the builder left open the pie-shaped, useless back corner space. What to do? Get a flashlight and learn what she caught back there, if there’s anything left of it? Who are we kidding? The solution stands before me, on four dainty white feet. I’ll just open the door, let her in there every so often, and assume that she will execute her duty, we might call it. What are cats for, anyway?

Ah, well. Winter is on the downhill slide, and soon our thoughts will turn to other things. Before gentle spring breezes and waving daffodils lure us outside, away from the internal, the dark and unseen, we are called forth to undertake this excavation, this vital and authentic rite of winter. Grant us courage.  Better give it a go now, before someone else gets hurt.

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Bonnie Raitt, Chief Closet Inspector

 

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From Aisle 3: A holiday appreciation

Waking up alone on a holiday is a particular type of solitude. Over the years I’ve come to dread it far less than I once did. But it is best, I’ve learned, to push back against holiday isolation with action. So when I realized I would be alone at home this Thanksgiving morning for several hours, I pegged that time to make some soup.

Chopping, stirring, and seasoning would be nourishing antidotes to the quiet, as I waited to attend a small afternoon dinner with dear friends. Travel to out-of-state family would follow the next day. But first, the soup.

Inevitably, I was missing one key ingredient—28 ounces of crushed tomatoes. Amazed to find Google declaring the nearest grocery store was actually open all day, I ventured out, for the first time ever, to grocery shop on Thanksgiving morning.

No one with any sense would be out buying canned tomatoes today, I scolded myself as I entered. Who are these people, anyway? They were an ordinary, but intriguing cast of characters, each deeply engrossed in their own mission.

First, we find Diligent Dan. DD has landed straight out of the mid-1980s, sporting a loose grey sweatsuit (now, there’s a word I haven’t typed in more than a decade) the style with gathered ankles, a wide elastic waist, and baggy legs. His gray hair stands straight up on one side of his head, his shirt tucked on one side, out on the other, his look trumpeting the priority of hunting and gathering over anything as insignificant as checking the mirror on this particular morning. DD is either exceptionally picky about his selections or utterly clueless about what he is after, for he lingers over choice after choice in the spices and baked goods aisle, glaring at his list and the labels in his hands, each in turn, seeking reconciliation between the two that seems to elude him. Sorry for his angst on this day of contemplating blessings, I wonder if someone waits at home, and whether they have budgeted for the time he invests on this excruciating analysis. Silently wishing DD Peace in Our Time, I slide my cart on past in pursuit of those crushed tomatoes.

Blocking the central traffic aisle and my access to the vegetable section we find a yammering pack we’ll call the Tripp Family Talkers. The TFTs are a party of five, a Mom and Dad and three young people, about college age, two boys and a girl peppering each other with questions and energetic responses that breed more of the same. Just home from school? Haven’t seen each other in eons, or perhaps arguing the merits of a forthcoming college football rivalry? Mom and Dad, one with a cart and one with an arm basket, are patiently trying to talk over this flow, while repeatedly interrupted by one of the youngsters, who carry nothing and seem to be along just for the conversation. The TFTs bob for several seconds like a school of fish on a gentle tide, destination maybe this way, maybe that, until finally one parent answers something in the affirmative and the TFTs drift comfortably away toward the checkout line, opening a passage hole in the central aisle for the rest us.

Breaking free to plunge ahead, I pass the Center Junk Aisle, where you might select any imaginable Christmas decoration that can be bought in the $3.99-ish range. Aware that we who oppose this encroaching holiday overlap will soon be as extinct as T-Rex, I am cheered to see this aisle is, on Thanksgiving morning, utterly and completely empty. Hooray for that, at least.

Finally, I pause in the canned tomato section to render my best DD imitation and compare labels for sodium content, while wondering why tomatoes must be crushed to go in soup. Isn’t that overkill? Snaring my no-sodium can and turning at last to go, I nearly bump into a young man, maybe late 20s. By his pace and aimless progress, he might be in the grocery, or might be anywhere—his lost expression cannot say. His eyes are red and swollen, his chin rough and stubbled, his ears plugged with earbuds, his gaze somewhere else. He carries nothing, so whatever he is after, he still seeks it. Hungry? High, or hung over? Grieving, missing home? Nowhere to go, so no reason to hurry? Or did he just forget his list? He does not notice me nearly bump him, and I stop short, rightly or wrongly, of the temptation to ask him if he needs something.

But his expression perches on my heart, and I wonder about him as my tomatoes and I make our way to checkout. Now my step quickens, as I check my watch. There is, after, all, something of a schedule to mind, and later, soup to simmer, turkey to share, fellowship to treasure. There are hearts and minds known to me, and I to them, and somewhere to be noticed, to be one of the lucky ones, beyond these few empty hours. From aisle 3, it is time to go forward, look outward, and give thanks.

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Teaching, or Learning?

You wouldn’t hear much these days about the Seven Deadly Sins, unless some aspiring social media “influencer” transformed them into Seven Deadly Sins that will Hamper Your Career—or some other impossibly simplified, allegedly self-helping pablum that was then shared on some garbage-filled social channel, receiving “likes” from thousands.

Well. I’ve already digressed, and we’re just getting started.

Returning now to our regularly scheduled program: I recently got reacquainted with one of the Super Seven, we might call them. Her name is Envy.

There was a time, not long ago, when Envy visited regularly, and I got to know her pretty well. You might know someone like her. Envy never fights her impossibly curly hair. She eats the occasional donut, yet never gains weight. She has a doting and faithful husband who laughs at her jokes, regularly brings home a paycheck, and will share in-depth conversations about a favorite Americana artist. Envy drives a sexy, late-model convertible, and nothing ever goes wrong with it. She travels a couple of times a year to exotic, sunny locations with smiling family, leaving the rest of us to admire, or resent (depending on the day), her Facebook vacation photos

And Envy’s powers go deeper, to more important, heart-rending matters. She has all the time she wants to spend with her family, whenever she chooses or may be needed. Envy never endured the gut-wrenching realities of looking for a job, and she never has too much month at the end of her money.  She is never afraid of being alone when she is old.  Most importantly of all, Envy never lost an adored family member to cancer.

Yep, Envy hung around a lot, during some tough times, until gradually I got sick of her. Maybe certain life changes opened my eyes wider to the value of things I had not held dear enough, or perhaps other vices just demanded my immediate attention. Either way, I realized I hadn’t seen Envy in quite some time, when suddenly, a few weeks back, she returned. Unannounced.

It was time for a much-needed break from the office, when a friend at work mentioned she was taking off at the same time. “Taking my grandkids to the beach,” she crowed. “Rented a place right on the water, where we can walk to great restaurants. Going on to Disney World from there. I can’t wait.” Hope it’s a blast, I responded, not as cheerfully as I might have, beating a swift path down the hall and out of sight before she could ask me what i was doing with my vacation. The answer wasn’t going to sound like much, in comparison.

There are indeed many blessings in life these days, but a beachfront condo and Disney junket funded by me for me and the grandkids was not one of them—-at least (she qualifies, optimistic to the very end), not in present circumstances. So, I went back to my office for a private pout and the chance to wish in solitary self-pity that I could bestow such wonders. I shut the door and turned around to see Envy reclining easily in my chair, her high-heeled, embroidered yellow cowboy boots propped up on the desk.

Get out, I began, with less ferocity than I might have.

“I just dropped in to ask about your grandchildren,” she observed, in musical tones. “How are things going?”

Get out! This time, I shouted.

“Okey dokey,” she acquiesced, easing her way to the door. “But I expect we’ll bump into each other again soon.”

A few days later, it was time for a Vacation Day with G-Ma, 2017-style, and this year’s episode was strictly local. My daughter dropped off Sis for a day with me while her brother was off on a camp expedition, and we blasted off in pursuit of Fun on the Cheap. It started at the swimming pool, then progressed to lunch and a prolonged visit to the public library. From there, we sashayed over to a local joint that purveys the most divine popsicles, all made from fresh fruits and whole creams.

As outings with Sis tend to go, the day included a sprinkling of brief but acute tragedies. Her swim float sprung a leak at the pool, and later she went down forward on her elbows and knees on the library sidewalk, shedding a bit of blood and causing severe injury to her dignity. Let’s hope, I thought, that a popsicle has healing qualities.

I parked outside the popsicle place and stood out in the sunshine, leaning in with an extended hand to help Sis hoist herself out of the booster seat in the back. As she pushed her four-year-old self upward and out, she delivered one of those smack-the-head, open-the-eyes moments. And I thought, not for the first time, that I should try as hard to learn from these children as I try to occasionally teach them a little something.

“This is the best day EVER,” she announced, hopping down onto the pavement. “We went swimming, and now we’re getting a popsicle….” She heaved a huge sigh of rapt anticipation, then inquired for the at least the third time, “What flavors do they have?”

I looked up for a brief second and noticed Envy sitting on one of the sun-dappled benches outside the popsicle store. She was watching us, laughing ironically and pointing her finger right at me. I leaned down to grab Sis’ hand, and when I looked up, she was strolling rapidly in the other direction, until she became a tiny dot on the horizon, then was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

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Saluting the Voices at the Table

Picture the following scene:

It’s early on a Saturday morning, and a group of about eight women, some perky and eager, some bleary-eyed and quiet, pull up their chairs around a large table. They exchange a few friendly greetings and begin rustling keyboards or pens and journals into position, while the leader of the group takes her seat at the head of the table and commences the morning’s work with a reading.

On this day, she reads a memoir excerpt, a particular section focused on the author’s memory of her mother’s kitchen and family meals shared there. From the nest of this beginning come her instructions to the group.

“Write about food,” she says. “It could be a memory of something you cooked or ate, some food you shared, a closed restaurant you especially miss for the experiences shared there. Anything about food. Let’s take about 15 minutes. Go.”

Whether the group is hungry or just particularly inspired by this “prompt,” might be a toss-up, but there are wistful smiles and pleasantly thoughtful, contemplative faces all around as fingers begin tapping keys or pushing pens across open, waiting pages. For me, there is an immediate, visceral memory of chicken frying in the kitchen of my adolescence, where i surreptitiously committed my favorite domestic crime: pinching off the edges of the crust to munch the crispy, amber skin and batter as it cooled. Haven’t had chicken that good since, I realize with an inner smile, and I am off.

But on another Saturday, the prompt to the waiting writers is darker, more personal. It begins with a reading on fear.

“Write about something you are afraid of,” she says. “Take 20 minutes for this one.”

Seriously—20 minutes on fear? Maybe, I ponder, I’ll just write about how scary this assignment is.  Sound like a nightmare that would make you break out in a sweat? Maybe too close to an exercise you loathed in a college writing seminar? Exactly.  And yet these women show up one Saturday a month, some of them faithfully, over and over for nearly a decade, for the privilege, challenge, frustration, pressure, sweat, heartbreak and inspiration that all manifest around this table.

The pen pushers and key tappers produce, Saturday after Saturday, work that is as varied in style, depth, and content as the topics that prompt it. Some come to the table as novices, some as published authors of various stripes, including poets, historians, and essayists. This particular group, which the leader named Pilgrim Writers, has attracted writers ranging in age from early 20s to early 70s.

The secret sauce that makes the table a safe place is clearly articulated for newcomers and cherished by the old hands. It is the principles of the Amherst Writers & Artists, a writing workshop philosophy that began in the early 1980s. Amherst workshops are designed not to hone particular writing skills or techniques, but to simply encourage anyone to claim self-expression in any form or fashion the writer so chooses. Work is shared aloud at the table, but there is no critique. Listeners may offer only observations about powerful impressions or strong concepts heard in the work. No acknowledgement or query may ever be made about any biographical nature in the work, and the writer is referred to in the context of piece as “the narrator,” never “you.”

My personal favorite Amherst tenet is this one: A Writer is Someone Who Writes. That means, among other things, that everyone comes to the table as an equal, whether they write only in a private journal or have published an award-winning collection of poems. All voices at the table are honored, regardless of output, training, progress, or any other criteria.

I love this tenet because it exposed one of my worst weaknesses during my very first visit to the table. I heard about the workshop from a friend and registered via email, thinking this would be a lark, an interesting Saturday morning. Maybe it would be a chance to casually stretch some unused muscles, more than 25 years after I began a career as a journalist but later moved on to other jobs. When emailing the workshop leader, I thought surely it was important to mention my many years of writing experience. I noticed she didn’t acknowledge those self-important facts in her response, but didn’t realize why until I got to the table and realized what a colossal, arrogant misperception I had. My experience was, and pretty much still is, utterly irrelevant to the work of the morning.

In fact, the opposite was immediately, brilliantly illuminated, and how many pegs I travelled down when I realized my mistake. It sunk in profoundly when I was listening to a good friend read her work—she, who had never written anything except papers in school, and perhaps, I knew, the occasional recipe. And yet, she delivered a short few paragraphs that knocked everyone present back in their chairs with the utter honesty, clarity and deeply personal nature of her words. My own offering in that go-round: not so much. And while I should hasten to say that nothing about the Amherst format is focused on judging, or competition, or measuring one’s quality against another’s, I still learned that day that claiming one’s voice has very little, if anything, to do with professional training.

It has everything to do with things like commitment, risk-taking, faith, listening, encouragement and, perhaps most of all, courage. Great writing emerges first and foremost from a heart with something vitally important to say, then from a mind willing to step up and say it, out loud, regardless of skill level or vocabulary. Month after month, year after year, some of the most powerful work gifted by writers at the table to the lucky listeners in the adjacent chairs comes from the newcomers, often women who never imagined they could do it and maybe never before dreamed of trying. This is the beauty of the Amherst foundation, which nurtures writers not just to begin, but to keep at it. I am one of those, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

This particular Amherst group, the Pilgrim Writers, will soon celebrate 10 years of writing at what one regular likes to call The Magic Table. Why do the regulars keep coming after all that time? For me, there are multiple reasons. First, all warm and grateful credit to our leader, who is not only the soul of encouragement but a steadfast source of fresh ideas month after month. The fellowship of others who love words is a draw that never changes. Sometimes that translates into the sharing of information on resources, publishing, and writing events. Sometimes I walk away with a tip about something new to read. Invariably, if my own motivation to write is floundering due to diverting life circumstances or flagging inspiration, I come away from the table with the spark reignited. The voice in my own head, that travels through my own fingertips to the keyboard, is unfailingly enriched by listening to the voices of my fellow Pilgrims.
It seemed opportune to dedicate this essay to the Pilgrim Writers on this milestone for me. The G-Ma Chronicles just passed a two-year anniversary, and this is my 50th story published here. The determination to give voice to my ideas about family humor and mid-life foibles took root at the Magic Table and grew from there. So here’s to all the pilgrims, whether new to the journey or seasoned, who show up and put their hearts onto the open page. It’s not an easy thing to do. And a very special salute to our intrepid leader, Amy Lyles Wilson, who shares her gifts of leadership and encouragement so freely, year after year. Long may you Write, each and every one of you. Every word shared is a gift to the rest of us.

 

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The Weight of Fashion, and Other Delusions

We all have problems that we know, someday when courage permits, must be faced. Could today be the day that I am tough enough?

Maybe I can’t really do this myself. Should I summon professional help?

It is time to excavate the interior of my purse.

I mean, really. I’m ordinarily not one to skirt issues. And yet day rolls into week morphs into month, and the cycle repeats, and I can’t make myself do it. Until finally, when hoisting it to my shoulder prompts an objection from the shoulder’s innermost being, I am finally forced to say to myself, What in the name of all that matters is IN this dadgum thing?

Sometimes it helps to face truth by typing it out in front of you, so here is an (admittedly partial) list of what emerged when I shoved my paw nervously down toward the bottom and began heaving out.

  • Small bag of nuts to ward against poor snack choices when blood sugar is low.
  • Bag of nuts and seeds added because first bag of nuts was hidden by other purse trash.
  • Promotional bag clip. I always need these in the kitchen, but generally don’t search for one in my purse.
  • Eyeglass cleaning cloth, filthy and unusable.
  • Instructional booklet for new sunglasses; when did sunglasses begin to require instructions? (Sun out?  Wear.  Toss booklet.)
  • Monogrammed handkerchief that belonged to my dad. Now, this is a comfort aid that I like having with me, like my granddaughter likes to tote Big Big Bunny for company. But it might better honor his memory if I washed it occasionally, because Dad was a gentleman who was orderly and neat in all things .
  • USB power plug, sans cord.
  • Handwritten cards with “homework” suggestions from therapist. Apparently she didn’t recommend that an orderly purse is a balm to the soul. Perhaps in a future session?
  • Parking garage entry ticket. How did I get out without paying?
  • Envelope for tickets to recent James Taylor concert. What a great show, but apparently, there were no trash cans in the arena?
  • Three metal bottle caps. Three! These mystify me most of all. I’m pretty sure I don’t randomly drink beer in the car or out on the street while carrying my purse. Flavored sparkling water is my travel drink of choice, and those bottles have plastic caps. Perhaps it is best not to think this one through.

I could go on, but it would be too embarrassing. It’s not that this problem has never been called to my attention in the past. Helping to unload my car when I arrived for a recent visit, my active and physically fit brother grabbed the handles of my purse and groaned when he hoisted it. The old joke that inevitably followed—What do you have in here? All your money?—clearly fell on deaf ears. Perhaps I didn’t wish to note that all my money wouldn’t weigh much, but that’s a different tale.

It might be reasonable to blame this problem on flawed fundamentals of Carry Strategy 1.0. This bag, by any standards, is large for a daily purse. In some restaurants, it needs its own seat. The thought process behind up-sizing went something like this: If I carry a “tote”-sized purse, it is big enough to insert a file, or an iPad, or even my laptop (see photo evidence), thus rendering unnecessary another bag, the cursed briefcase. All these things would be feasible if dimensions alone mattered. But you’ve spotted the flaw here, right? These items rarely fit because there is too much other JUNK IN THERE.

 

Can the problem be blamed on a weakness for fashion? Maybe. A little. Big bags are in, or so it would appear on the streets, or in the elevators of our office building. And I must confess partiality to this particular bag, which has drawn the unsolicited admiration of more than one female under 40 in just the last week or two. What more does a female crave as style validation when she is, shall we leave it here, no longer 40?

This problem weighed heavily, you might say, at the end of a recent weary day when I was followed into the elevator by another woman who looked, like me, so glad to be exiting the premises. Well, lookee there, I thought to myself as she struggled to free a hand to push the her floor button, she’s carrying a tote AND a briefcase AND a lunch bag! My own burden could clearly be worse. Just before the door closed, a man jumped in and cheerily punched his own floor button, both hands fluttering free as two soaring birds. He was carrying: nothing.

It was too intriguing to let this pass. Do you ever wonder, I said to my fellow Bag Lady, why we seem to always carry so much stuff?

“I KNOW,” she lamented, with a tired sigh. “I don’t know why that happens.” We both turned to the male before us, who instantly sensed his vulnerable state. “Hey, I don’t carry things home because I try not to work on the weekends,” he began, reinforcing his hands-free status by throwing both up in self-defense. “And, I mean, I don’t, well, I, just, well, I better not…”. The door opened at his floor, and he vanished.

Bag Lady and I sighed, with no further words exchanged. We both got off at the next floor, shouldered our burdens with difficulty, and strode out to carry on.

 

 

 

 

 

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Summer’s Lament

I knew it would be like this when you returned.  It’s always been this way.

The signs are there, omnipresent as the dawn, in the mirror, out the window, in the sky if I dare look up.

You arrive early, and arrogantly linger later each day, beholden to no one, keeper of the clock, doling out the bejeweled hours that can be extended, dream-like, only at your bidding.

You declare yourself with such clarity, such brazen beauty, that is easiest, really best, to wade in, leap in, maybe even, to the forceful current you are.

What could possibly be wrong, after all, about you returning?   Let’s celebrate, you taunt me, and why not, indeed, because I can’t work, can’t concentrate, as long as you are here, alluring as ever.  Thoughts yield to the breeze, artfully dodging completion, crumbs make a final and unyielding stand on unwiped surfaces, the mail climbs higher in its abject, lonely stack.

This time, maybe just this once, let’s give in to all that you are.  Take these days, and illuminate them as you will; can you linger?  No?  You are going, already?  Unthinkable.  Unbearable.

Don’t leave me.  I adore you.

June.

 

 

 

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Growing old, together

An alluring spring dawn had announced itself through the slats in the window blinds long before we raised our heads from the pillows simultaneously and locked eyes.  No words were exchanged, but the message was clear.  Keats would have observed us as two souls with but a single thought:  It was too early to get up.

I’m not sure which of us dropped our head back to the pillow first.  It might have been the dog, it might have been me.  I didn’t wait to see if she would close her eyes again, because I knew that if I did, she would follow suit.  Whenever possible, we prefer to linger prone on the soft surfaces—separate ones, mind you, we don’t share–in the early hours.  We are not morning people.

We have been together a decade now, Madeline Basset* and I, that span representing the longest relationship I’ve sustained with someone who lives here, other than the time I raised my daughter.  Our relationship has mellowed, as all enduring ones do, into a tapestry of shared joys balanced with loving tolerance and the occasional negotiated outright frustration.  This many years in, I expend much less energy resolving the latter, often giving in in ways uncharacteristic of my general policy.  Blatant misbehavior cannot be allowed, of course, but so many things are right on the edge, and after all, is compromise not the road to world peace? And like all good partnerships, there are ways in which we work just alike, and ways in which we balance each other out as opposites.

 

We love socializing, most of all with family but also with neighbors and friends, but we do not suffer lightly fools who misbehave, especially right in our faces.  At such times, we have been known to bark in disapproval.  We frequently disregard those who tell us what to do, even though we may appear to capitulate in the short term.  We appreciate recognition, but are content not to be the center of attention.  We love groups but also need our quiet time.  We don’t like thunderstorms.  Ever.

And yet the opposites reinforce the twosome.  Overdrive is my default mode, unfortunately, while supreme relaxation and Zen-like repose are hers.  A basset might be nature’s antidote for the restless and overwrought.  Her exceptional talent in this regard once drew the loving sarcasm of my late father, who loved animals in his own way.  Observing her curled up and snoring soundly on a corner of the couch during a loud family party, the house full of people, he whispered in my ear: “I’m worried about Madeline.”  Oh, no!  I said, failing to notice the glint in his eye.  What’s wrong?  “She’s exhibiting signs of a stress disorder,” he cracked.

Much has been written about the bond between humans and the canines who join their lives to ours.  I don’t pretend to understand the biology of it, but never doubt the intriguing facts that come along now and then.  I once mentioned to a friend that that Madeline clearly knows who is at the door before they enter—the unidentifiable outsider gaining the deep guard-dog bark, the cherished friends and family naught but a wag of the tail and lick on the ankles.  She had read they can hear human heartbeats, and perhaps that is an identifier?

Hounds, of course, possess discernment of scent that is far beyond human comprehension.  Taking a walk requires one of those compromises I mentioned earlier; the nose drives all perceptions and actions, and some olfactory evidence, most of it at ground level, must be lingered over and  studied. It seemed prudent to cease opposing this necessity long ago, so I christened our slow but steady forward progress The Hound Dog Shuffle.  Often other dog owners walking the boundaries of our neighborhood will lap us, the quick ones more than once.  The occasional passer-by, in the company of a canine of average height and a nose that is pointed forward instead of down, will observe this pattern with a smile and ask, “What is she doing?”  My response:  reading the day’s news.

 

Kind friends laugh away my acknowledgments of the old saw, that joke that we are naturally drawn to dogs that look like us.  They might be too indulging to openly admit that a funny-looking dog with red hair, freckles, and remarkably short legs resemble any pal of theirs.  Of the fact that I was nicknamed Stump by a rough-edged boss at my college part-time job, I say very little.

Looks aside, there can be no question that females who have achieved middle age and beyond soldier other challenges in common.  We have bad knees, and don’t care much for steps anymore.  Our ears require constant maintenance, hers for obvious reasons, mine to navigate my marked, inherited hearing impairment.  Our bladders demand relief way more often than is convenient.  The number of pill bottles in the cupboard is increasing.

Who knows what dogs understand about their lot in life?  Probably more than we imagine.  I hope she never wonders, as I so often do, how much more time we’ll have together.  As the months roll inexorably on, we cope, we adjust, we change, we accommodate, staying close to the things we love most, managing everything else the best we can.  I guess that’s what growing older is all about.  We’re walking that path side-by-side, making it a little easier for each other as we go.

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++I am often asked why I named a basset Madeline.  She is the namesake of a young female character in the stories of legendary British humorist P.G. Wodehouse.  The Madeline Bassett of Wodehouse fame was a soft-spoken, romance-babbling airhead who frightened practical-thinking men and was always getting entangled in the wrong relationship.

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Love on the Heels of Loss

These are my Easter shoes.  Pretty spectacular, yes?  They tend to attract a lot of comments when I wear them, at least once every Easter season.  But these aren’t just fabulous footwear.  These are shoes with a story.

In early fall of 2012, our family faced news for which there is no preparation.  My beautiful younger sister, Jane, learned that fall that cancer had penetrated her brain.  More than four years into her fierce battle with the most aggressive form of breast cancer, the disease took a huge leap forward into the control center of her mind and life.

After we received the news together in the doctor’s office, Jane and I quietly parted ways outside and each turned homeward.  The diagnosis at that stage was not yet pronounced as terminal, but clearly, we were now in the most desperate of battles.  Cancer in her brain?  Cancer messing with the synapses that twinkled in a soul that was born to serve others, to spread love everywhere she went, to give all she had?  How was it even possible for a just universe to allow it?

I’ll never know what Jane did over those next couple of hours as the news began to sink in.  Shock and grief spur the most bizarre things.  I’m not proud of what I did, but here’s the truth:  I went to the mall.

I mean, really.  But I couldn’t go home alone.  I couldn’t go back to the office, couldn’t answer anyone’s questions, risk crying in front of someone.  Yet I was desperate to avoid isolation, to observe people going about daily lives, to stare hard at the ordinary and believe it would ever exist again.

To the Hallowed Halls of Excess I went, and I wandered through the entrance nearest the first parking place I spotted.  I staggered inside and aimlessly turned right, then ambled without aim into the first store where a smiling face invited my approach.  I won’t name the designer here, but let’s just say I would never, ever, at my age and on my budget, have set out to make the shop my destination.  Yet there I was.

And there were the shoes.

Like I said, shock can be the strangest dynamic of the soul.  I’m not sure why I thought the shoes might make me feel better.  Granted, retail therapy is one of the oldest jokes in our materialistic culture, but this ran much deeper.  Certainly, I had never seen a pair like them, never worn anything on my feet half that expensive.  Maybe I thought I would strike a blow at the pain by spitting the Budget in the Eye, like some perverted twist on the theory of the ring in the cow’s nose.  Or something.  Maybe I was too stunned to notice the price.  No doubt, I was too distracted to fit myself correctly, because they are half a size too small.  And so, the nonsense piled up on top of itself, while the shoes went into a bag and homeward with me.

I shocked everyone who knew me the first couple of times I wore them.  I can’t remember if I ever wore them for Jane before we lost her about 10 months later.

When I admitted this escapade to a friend many months later, the friend asked kindly if I would ever enjoy wearing the shoes again, or if the three-inch heels would tap out too many unbearable memories with every step.

Grief charts its own course, with no pilot to decide the direction or distance of the journey, and Mercy often blurs the details over time.  I can’t remember when I first knew to bring the shoes out for Easter.  Or when I realized that the answer to my friend’s question is actually the opposite of what she feared.

As I dust them off and admire them anew this Easter season, the shoes require me to remember that after unbearable pain gently alters over time, something beautiful may remain.  They are my colorfully absurd, ridiculous reminder about the eternal nature of love, even though love may walk together with agonizing sacrifice.  Acquired on one of the darkest days imaginable, they somehow make me accept yet again that Jane’s love, shared so freely with me and so many others, does, truly, endure forward, and forever, not to be diminished by time or space.

So, it’s time again to cram my complaining feet into an ironically high-fashion, shamefully secular tribute to a beloved soul who went ahead and yet remains.  Never given to impractical extravagance, a stunner who made any brand look stylish and expensive, my sister would laugh her head off at the very idea.  And I love her for that, still, as I know she loves me, and all of us.  Hallelujah.

 

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Listen, here: That much, I can do

The status of grandmother was bestowed on me six years ago last month.  Oddly, it didn’t come with a manual.  Though it is surely one of life’s richest blessings, I’m still trying to figure out how to do it.

There must be others out there who, like me, feel so different from grandmothers of earlier generations that it is ironic to even use the same title.

After all, look how the role of women has changed in our culture in the last few decades.  Neither of my grandmothers worked outside the home.  Their parents died younger, and I have no memories of any of my great-grandparents.  They had lifelong partners, enduring marriages of five decades or longer.

In 2017, it’s a different picture for many women whose kids have kids.  Having just entered my seventh decade, I’m still a working professional, with miles to go before retirement is visible on the horizon.  I’m a single woman, looking after myself and striving to maintain a social life at the same time.  My precious mother is, thank heavens, still with us at 86, so I strive to stretch my time across four generations of family.  And many of them are 200 miles away.

Mom stirring applesauce June 2016

My mom taught us to make homemade applesauce.  I hope I get to pass that technique on.

My grandmothers occupy such large places of love and respect in my memories, but can I be to my grandchildren what they were to us?  Not likely.

 

My maternal grandmother often wore an apron, and could roast the most beautiful chicken any chef every claimed.  She came to visit for working trips, joining my mother in the kitchen for the all-day process of cooking country ham, and she patiently hemmed and mended hand-me-downs.  She was a crackerjack card player, demonstrating tactics that belied her gentle demeanor.  I liked attending her church, because its rituals were open to “all who believed” and not restricted to those who completed some class or ritual declaration.  That meant that a child could share in the communion celebration with the adults.

My paternal grandmother was a stunning, petite blonde who stayed beautiful as she aged.  She had elegant taste, a fine wardrobe, and the manners of an accomplished socialite.  That included certain standards that were not to be compromised, and when they were, hell might demand the settlement of accounts.  She hosted elegant parties that required dressing just so, and my mother prepared us carefully.   If my grandfather told raucous jokes at dinner and enjoying himself too much in his cups, she registered disapproval by threatening to leave the room—and when he didn’t behave, she vanished.  No shrinking violet, that one.

Is any of that a heritage I can pass on?

Elegant parties?  I like to set a nice table, and I have china and lovely dining treasures from both of them.  But my holiday dinners are more likely to be thrown together in the wee hours the night before, after a 50-hour work week.  By the time the guests arrive, I’m lucky if I remembered to shower and put on lipstick.  I would love to learn to cook a country ham myself.  But one has to weigh a whole day invested against the convenience of buying it cooked from one of the fine Kentucky purveyors, of which there are many.

Teach my kids how to maintain a home, how to get spots out, one of many of my mother’s great aptitudes? Don’t be silly.  Not long ago, I asked my extremely handy son-in-law to tighten the handle on a finicky kitchen faucet.  Got mildly irritated when I noticed him stockstill in the middle of the kitchen, staring intently at his phone.  Don’t they ever put the dang things down?  That was before I realized he was watching a You Tube video about repair of not just any faucet, but THAT faucet.  The next generation doesn’t need our knowledge.  They get it from strangers, on a tiny glass screen.

So what CAN we offer?  After six years, here are some intentions I have set (as the yoga teacher calls it).  The important things, it seems, are less about the hands and more about the mind and heart. They are not necessarily new to this generation, but perhaps take on a different hue in today’s times.

We can show up.  When they are older and look back on important days in their lives, I hope it means something if I was there.  So getting there is the goal.  Other things can wait.

We can listen.  The world is roaring with noise and distractions that defeat good conversation.  Yet communication defines our relationships.  If my grandkids have something to say, I want them to know I am interested in hearing it.

We can ask questions.  What happened at school today?  What’s that book about? I want Buddy and Sis to know I’m interested in their observations and ideas, their kiddie jokes, their fears.  Their parents are good talkers, wonderful at encouraging the kids to express themselves and talk through things.  But it takes a village.

We can show mercy.  A while back at a family meal, my daughter relayed a story about a particularly trying episode with Sis a few days before.  Absorbing the details of this transgression, I turned to notice Sis watching me intently, brow furrowed with anxiety as she awaited my reaction.  I support the parents in their excellent standards for discipline—but there was no need here to extend the sentence already rendered by the court.  Sis’ little map flooded with relief when I returned her gaze, winked at her, and changed the subject.

We can offer sanctuary.  It’s a tough world out there, getting tougher.  Buddy and Sis are lucky to be happy and safe in their home, but when they need another place to be encouraged, empathized with, or just to raid the cabinet for snacks, my door can be open.

At six, our Buddy is an intense thinker, progressing through reason and root cause and relevance at an astonishing clip.  Thoughts tumble out so quickly I struggle to keep pace, but I do my best.  He also seems to pick up particular turns of phrase that linger for a period in the Lexicon of Buddy.  He repeated one of those multiple times over dinner not long ago.  “Evie,” he kept asking, “Can I tell you something?”

Yes, Buddy.  You bet.  I might not get it, and it won’t be long before you are so much smarter than I will ever be.  But I am listening.  Tell me.

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From the Mat to the Mind and Heart

At first there was church, of course, but there had always been church, and probably always will be.  Then there was therapy, some of it encouragingly productive, though one shouldn’t dispense stars for service well rendered on such things, like online restaurant reviews.  There was always walking, more walking, no shortage of places to walk.  And drinks with friends, staunchly loyal and present, and drinks without friends, but not too many, or, at least, not too many too often, I’m pretty sure.  It all helped, some of the time, or maybe, when times were tough, it just comforted me to know I was trying.

But the motivation to keep searching remained.  So, one dark day when the joints were complaining, the back stiff, and the spirit low, I accepted the encouragement of a wise neighbor and turned up at the appointed time.  I choose a place near the back, close to an escape route (rather like church, come to think of it). I sit, watch quietly and wait.

Except you’re not really supposed to watch, intones the person at the front of the room, oozing meditative calm from every pore.  It’s not about what others are doing.  It’s about you.

That’s not something accepted easily by those of us with the overly anxious, driven nature, but it’s too soon to give up, instructs the driven voice inside.  I settle for surreptitious observation, rolling the eyes various directions to clock what is happening without noticeably turning my head.  Instructions commence and movement begins, while it remains very quiet, with little sound but the gentle beat of the low Hindu background music.

Meanwhile, it is plenty loud inside my head, where I am silently shouting frantic responses to the flow of action.  Balance on my what?  Recline like a pigeon?  I am almost positive pigeons never recline unless they are dead.  Down dog?  Will someone give me a treat if I do this correctly?  Dang, the people behind me look weird from this angle.

My doctor said this would be relaxing.  He must be insane.  I am 55 years old, and it is my first yoga class.

That scene, more than four years ago, came to mind recently when I incurred my first yoga injury, a painful pinch in the shoulder joint.  It seemed prudent to take a break while it healed up.   Away from the studio for longer than I’d been in awhile, I couldn’t help but wonder again if I’m too old, too unfit, too whatever to keep up the practice.  How many women who stroll into the average class with their long legs clad in designer tights and ponytails swinging cheerfully look like me—25 pounds overweight, short arms, short legs, a noticeably unfashionable yoga wardrobe?

The answer, it took me years to discern, is no one knows, or cares.  There’s no question the physical benefits can be profound and enduring.  My early-stage arthritis, stiff knees and back remain drastically improved as long as I practice. At first, I viewed yoga as a more rational cousin to pilates and hoped to build strength, flexibility and better breathing habits.   I told friends who inquired about progress that the stretches and movements are great, but I’m not very good at the “ohm stuff”.

It was true.  It took me two years to learn to close my eyes when instructed (afraid I would miss something), and even longer to lay still all the way through the closing pose, savasana, without sitting up prematurely.  (Savasana translates into English as corpse pose; who wouldn’t love that?) I was too busy running through my grocery list in my head to absorb the teacher’s closing chant.  Yet somewhere on the journey I realized, as wiser heads have known for many centuries, that the “ohm stuff” may change your life more than flattening your palms on the floor in a forward fold. I still can’t.  Not even close.walkway-over-dunes-fl-11-16

When I finally opened my heart to stillness of mind during practice, startling, sometimes unsettling, visions occupied the space that opened there.  One day, I surrendered to stillness in savasana more out of complete exhaustion than anything else, and behind closed eyes I suddenly saw a bright, moving series of images of my beloved father, who died three years before.  They flowed rapidly from one memory to the next, like still photos blended into a documentary video clip.  Tears rolled down the sides of my face and onto the mat.

When months turned into years and I persisted, I finally saw the gift of yoga that for me, matters most—more than flexibility and better posture, more than learning and remembering to breathe more fully.  When I opened my ears to instruction, not just in stretching or balancing or breathing, I finally heard it.

Yoga teaches self-acceptance, a state that eludes so many of us, for some strange reason, for most of our lives.  If you are looking for encouragement to do still more, to build reps, go faster, push harder, to shave seconds, those goals might be right for you, but you must go somewhere else to achieve them.  Yoga practice is the ultimate counter-pose to that mindset.

There it was again yesterday.  “Remember,” the teacher said as we extended forward in a seated fold (in my case, mere inches, the hamstrings pleading for mercy), “wherever you are in this pose is perfectly okay.  Contentment with where we are is a very important part of our practice.”  And:  “When we move to the second side of this pose, you will notice that one side of your body is more available than the other.  That is because you are human, and that’s how human bodies work.”

This foundational concept will always be a stretch goal (pardon the pun) for me, something to nurture and feed long after I get my palms on the floor, if I ever do.  Serious yogis know it is the journey of a lifetime.  Even those who begin that journey very late still can, I’ve learned, take tiny, baby-sized, forward steps.

One of my favorite classes is led by a teacher** who tells jokes deep into the vinyasa flow.  Probably sacrilege to some, but I adore it.  Once when we students were on our backs, extending a leg straight to the ceiling and stabilizing it with clasped hands behind the calf, he came by and saw me struggling to reach higher on the back of my leg, silently cursing my short arms and stiff hamstrings.  I’m not very good at this one, I whispered as he gently nudged my leg higher.  I need arm extensions.footprints-in-sand-10-16

“No, you don’t,” he insisted, kindly.  “You can do this.”  That tiny spark of encouragement somehow bestowed additional breath, which in turn relaxed me and magically increased my range.  Just for that treasured second, he was right.  My arms, my effort were just fine.

And that’s what keeps me going back.

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**It’s time to share my deep gratitude for the folks at Sanctuary Yoga in Nashville, Tennessee, for fostering an environment that is both enlightening and inclusive.  Special thanks to teachers Tom Larkin, Liz Stewart, and Melissa Eltringham for bringing such positive spirit and good humor to class, every single time.

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