A Multitude of Memoirs

While having a chat with a good friend lately, we started talking about five-word memoirs. She is taking a memoir-writing class and had been instructed, along with her fellow classmates, to come up with her life in five words. As I took a walk later that afternoon, I found I was coming up with a few of my own: "Tough Illnesses. I Am Blessed." "Many Choices. Trusted My Intuition." "Always Trusted That Small Voice." "Amazing Opportunities Made Me Choose." "Swirling Drama. I Sought Joy." The act of trying to tell my story in five words made me keep coming back to the same two themes of learning valuable lessons from my experiences with life-threatening and life-altering illnesses and my reliance on heeding the wisdom of my intuition, even when it seems inexplicable to me. Lately, I've been living out of balance, trying to fulfill three professional obligations that I just couldn't totally walk away from without feeling as if I had taken them to closure. In so doing, I had not been able to exercise regularly. My sleep patterns were off. Time with my husband was cut short most weeknights over a hastily eaten dinner so I could attend an evening meeting. Time to simply be -- by myself, with my husband, with friends -- was in short supply. My attention span for reading, one of my favorite pastimes, was even shorter. Each of my professional obligations was very important to me -- challenging, interesting and growing experiences. But the load was getting heavy as I tried to do each of them to the best of my abilities. Slowly, however, each of those professional obligations is ending, and as they peel away, I am finding myself somewhere underneath, a me that is in need of play. So, perhaps I am writing my new five-word memoir: "Knew When To Pull Back." 

Same Page

There is a fair amount of justifiable criticism that our society has become fixated with little handheld screens, rather than embracing the here and now of real living. With our eyes focused on a tiny screen forever in the palms of our hands, we can miss out on the important things happening around us. It would seem that we have lost our way as to what constitutes a friend and what constitutes a "friend." Absolutely nothing takes the place of real friendships, real encounters with real people, making real memories that will serve us well into the future. However, in defense of social media, I would offer that Facebook has opened valuable doors for me into the lives of friends I have known for years through my person-to-person encounters, but may not have had the opportunity to truly understand what's important to them and what's happening in their lives. I have a lovely community of friends on Facebook, many of whom are around my age. So, we're on the same page, so to speak. We support each other with compassion and understanding through day-to-day life, new beginnings and painful endings. We share news about job changes, retirements, divorces, graduations, weddings, becoming caregivers to ill parents, facing the death of loved ones, and watching children grow up to become parents themselves. We share the mundane, too, from silly jokes and humorous observations to photos of birds and flowers in our gardens and have-to-try recipes. Through "selfies," I get to see photographs of my friends' hobbies, spouses, pets and vacation destinations. I was slower to delve into this social media world, doing so not quite kicking and screaming but at least as a skeptic. However, now I embrace what is good about this quick and instant method of communication. I realize that friends can come to us in a variety of ways, including through a handheld device. The bigger benefit is that now when I see people with whom I correspond on Facebook, my in-person conversations have more depth and meaning because these friends have shared their lives with me on nearly a daily basis. Social media communication is just one way of staying in touch and we shouldn't allow it to supplant our real-life, person-to-person contact. But after having been slow to embrace the Facebook experience, I'm now ever-so-glad that I arrived. After all, as Bette Midler sings, "you got to have friends."

Uncertainty's Beauty

I have come to believe that there is beauty -- even a comfort -- in uncertainty. That probably sounds counter-intuitive, given that we humans tend to crave certainty and seek ways to reduce or avoid risk. I have found that when I'm in a state of uncertainty, I have the opportunity to release my expectations of how things should turn out or how I wish them to be. Uncertainty forces me to relinquish my false sense of control and to be one with what is. Never was that more real to me than a few years ago when a benign tumor pressing on my spinal cord rendered me paralyzed from just above the waist down. I was taken by ambulance to a larger city hospital after an MRI revealed the reason for my mysterious, spontaneous paralysis. The neurosurgeon cautioned my husband and me that surgery, though imminent, wasn't necessarily going to reverse the problem. He was only cautiously optimistic that I would walk again. I made the decision then to hang onto my faith and hope and to allow things to unfold as they were. The shifting sands under my paralyzed feet made for some challenging traversing mentally, physically and spiritually, but my decision to embrace uncertainty rid it of its power over me. Thankfully, I did heal and I did regain my ability to walk. No one would know when I walk my normal fast clip these days that at one time, I didn't know if I'd ever walk again. Now, when I begin to go down the dark, fear-filled path that uncertainty thrives on drawing me down, I try to stop, breathe deeply and seek peace with what is. A peaceful countenance stops the scrambling and lifts me up out of uncertainty's mire and onto smoother footing. A mindful, peace-filled, hope-filled state. Yes, there is comfort in that.

Snow! Snow! Snow!

I like to talk "big" about spending my winters in sunny, warmer climes, but the truth is I love the change of seasons and I love snow. I suppose it's easy to write about my love of snow in December when it's fresh and white and new and gives everything a delightful Christmas card feel. When it's still on the ground in March, however, and looking sooty and dirty and like big, hard clumps of gray gunk, I've already moved on to thoughts of spring and am just waiting for the first signs of green. But, it's December! At this time of year, I'm right with Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney, dreaming of a white Christmas. I'm singing with a smile as they croon "Snow" and convince me to "go to sleep and dream of snow, snow, snow, snow." I'm one with Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, belting out jubilantly every word of "Let it Snow." And sing it I did the week before Thanksgiving when we experienced our first snowfall of the season. When I awoke that morning and threw open the curtains, everything outside was coated with a thick blanket of white. The stark, coal-colored bare tree limbs were frosted with inches of perfect, white snow. I grabbed my cell phone to capture a few pictures of the idyllic scene. I recognized that same excited feeling I've had since childhood in reaction to the first snow fall of the season, with visions of the adventures of making snowmen, snow angels and snow forts dancing in my head. That evening, our community held its annual Christmas light parade. Every glittering parade entry looked as if it was caught in a snow globe. It was magical. So this month, I'll sing along happily with Bing and Rosemary and Steve and Eydie. And I'll revel in the thrill of December snowfalls and the magic surrounding them. Let it snow!

Now Thank We All Our God

On this first day of November, my thoughts go to thanks and to the lovely hymn, "Now Thank We All Our God." I have been making it a practice for several years to list three things for which I'm grateful upon awakening and again before I go to sleep at night. Such daily and nightly exercises help me keep perspective in the face of the myriad stresses, both major and minor, that can clog up my day. It's easy to get bogged down with the "have-nots" when my life is actually so filled with "haves." By reminding myself of just three things for which to be grateful, I become more centered, positive and hopeful. Recently, I ran into a friend who I don't have the opportunity to see often. One of her first questions to me was to ask about my health. Then, she reminded me ever so wisely that if we have our health and happiness, we pretty much have everything that we need. Just a month earlier, I had suffered a health scare that, fortunately, turned out to be nothing worrisome. However, my friend's words about health and happiness reminded me of the worry I had experienced just a few weeks prior. Health and happiness are linked, but they don't necessarily have to be. I know of numerous people who have taught me the lesson that one's health doesn't have to have power over one's happiness. While one benefits from the other, it is possible to experience happiness even when our health isn't where we would like it to be. Being grateful for each day and saying it with our "hearts and hands and voices" is what Thanksgiving is all about, and Thanksgiving should really be every day.

Glorious and Boisterous

A good friend recently described autumn as "the most glorious, spectacular and boisterous of seasons with its bright colors." It is such an apt description for fall and particularly for October. If October was invited to a social gathering, she would be the much-anticipated guest, the one who lit up the room simply upon her arrival. She would be strikingly beautiful with big, expressive eyes and an exotic name like Scarlet or Goldie. October wouldn't simply slip in the front door; she would "arrive" with all of the flash and excitement one could possibly muster. Hers would be the bright orange ensemble (probably with a cape and a big hat with a feather), with lots of gold bangles and ruby red lipstick. October would be the extrovert in the room, talking loudly, laughing easily, gesturing expansively and hugging generously. The party would come to life, thanks to October's arrival. But, alas, October's gaiety isn't to last. Sooner than we can imagine and certainly sooner than we are ready, October will exit and November -- tall, thin November with his long limbs and beaky nose --will arrive. He will scarcely be noticeable in his nearly monochromatic attire of taupe and dove gray, with an accent or two of charcoal brown and winter white. He might have elbow patches on his tweed jacket, wire-rimmed glasses worn low on his nose and a pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth, blowing narrow streams of gray smoke upward. November will be the guest who will spend more time observing than talking, but when he does talk, everyone will agree that his soft-spoken words are important and worthy of listening. Don't get me wrong. November isn't shy, nor is he arrogant. He displays an air of confidence, quiet and inward strength. No one will jump up and down with excitement when November arrives as they did when October sailed in, but he will make his presence known with time. While October is here, however, I plan to celebrate and have my smart phone in hand everywhere I go so I can attempt to capture as much of her glorious, spectacular and boisterous beauty.  

Stay a Little, Summer

I love the writings of the late Gladys Taber, particularly her Stillmeadow series, featuring chronological glimpses into her life on her Connecticut farm. For the past weeks, I've been reading Mrs. Taber's "The Book of Stillmeadow," (Harper & Row, Publishers, 1984; originally published by Macrae Smith Company in 1948), with special interest in the June, July and August chapters. I've been comparing Mrs. Taber's 1940s-era summer to mine some 70 years later. There are more similarities than one might imagine, even though we live during different eras in different parts of the country. Gladys Taber's writings are universal because of the gentle spirit she gives them. In "The Book of Stillmeadow," the last words in the July chapter especially struck me (page 206): "'Stay a little, summer, do not go,' I whisper,...." That's how I always feel at this time of year when the seasons and months shift. I'm never quite ready to loosen my grasp on summer. I want it to stay a little. Summer is like a dear guest whose arrival is anticipated, the days counted until it gets here, is savored and relished, and then, whose departure creates a void. I like the sunshine, the billowy clouds in a blue, blue sky, the green grass, the overflowing planters of flowers, the farmer's market finds that are just too good to pass up, the long days, the warm evenings. Stay a little, summer. I like the sound of the children laughing while splashing in the lake as we walk by. I like the smell of barbecue grills, the feel of the warm breeze on my face, the taste of fresh tomatoes and ears of corn, the music of the weekly summer concerts on our courthouse square. Stay a little, summer. But, alas, time marches on and summer is quickly slipping from my grasp as it steps away. It's time to cast my eyes forward to autumn.