Flying Solo

 

One realizes the many things one had help with,

Like rubbing cream into the dry spot on one’s back, completely out of reach.

Now one takes a bamboo back scratcher and

Covers it with a sock and 

Slathers the sock with moisturizer and

Manages the job.

Now one realizes it will be fine if some jars can’t be opened and 

Talks to oneself and the cat about many matters and

Works at the skill of cooking for one and

Checks thrice that the doors are locked before retiring and

Stretches out in the bed that has long been a solo operation anyway and

Manages eventually to sleep.

One worries about falling and

Does slow, gentle yoga to get stronger and

Practices balancing on one foot and

Hires help for the snow shoveling and

Discovers the fellow who shovels at the door one cold morning

Hand over heart, asking how one is “holding up.”

Neighbors and friends, too, check in on the “holding up” question

And one realizes that after all it’s a comfort that people care.

One musters the courage to drive everywhere and

Discovers it’s doable after all and

Likes the convenience of driving across town to one’s appointments

Rather than always taking the bus.

One gets the smaller Christmas tree and fewer poinsettias and

Considers procuring smaller ornaments and

Tries not to cry in front of one’s children

Lest they think one is about to crash and burn on this solo flight.

One realizes there is a vast reservoir of strength,

Steely strength

The kind of strength that allows one to push out a baby or two and

Lose a third

And one draws on this strength and remembers to breath and eat and sleep and

Notice the winter sunsets, still glowing and glorious though

One is flying solo.

On Weeding

I learned three lessons from my father the master gardener.  

As I kneel to breathe in the fragrance of rich earth, 

Separating beneficial from non-beneficial,

I hear his wise words.

One:  know well the plants that don’t serve you; dig them up by the roots, so they won’t return to haunt you and your garden.

Two:  shake off every bit of precious earth clinging to a weed’s roots; let the black gold fall back into the rich soil.

Three:  be gentle with the noble earthworm rising briefly from his tunnels; release him to burrow back into the dark and continue his work; he’s the earth’s friend, and yours.

Janet’s Joy

My friend Janet was never a member of Facebook, or Instagram, or Twitter.  But she read my old-fashioned blog.  She faithfully checked it, and called to talk to me about it, and added comments sometimes, as a way of staying in touch with me as we moved away from Indiana and farther apart geographically—her to New Jersey and me to Colorado.

And so even though I haven’t posted on my blog for some time, I am leaving this post now in honor of Janet, who slipped away far too soon in February, after a difficult illness.

Here is one thing I know is true:  Janet knew how to find joy.

She found joy in all sorts of everyday things:  her five senses, other people and cultures, languages, ideas.  When we were first friends in high school she found joy in my writing and singing and let me know this often.  She was always excited to read a new poem or paragraph I’d written, or to hear a new song—and because she found joy in these things, I found greater joy.

Janet learned to belly dance in her twenties.  I can still see her clearly in my memory in her colorful dance costume flashing a wide smile—sensuously moving and turning to the drumbeat, long dark hair swirling, finger cymbals tinging and coin belt jingling.

When I brought my firstborn child back to Indiana for a visit, Janet was there to greet him, hold him, and revel in the miracle of him.  I was reminded of how lucky I was to have the joy of a child in my life.

Janet’s lifelong fascination with understanding and expanding upon new ideas led her to question, and listen, and question again, and ultimately succeed academically.  I never saw her teach a class, but I’m certain she passed on this passion and excitement as she shared new ideas with her students and listened to theirs.

Janet found spiritual joy in Buddhist teachings and by learning the healing arts of Ayurveda.  She closed each conversation with words of comfort:  “Be well.”  She worked hard to become a strong healer and teacher.  Had she been able to stay with us I know she would have soon found a way to provide healing and comfort to others full time.

Janet was in my life for nearly fifty years.  I remember one overnight at my house while we were still in high school.  I showed her a bottle of Oil of Olay I’d purchased and was using nightly in miserly, pea-sized portions to moisturize my face.   Janet smiled as she lifted up the pale pink bottle, then squirted huge dollops on her hands and rubbed the cream luxuriously all over her body—because this joy, too, was meant to be fully appreciated.

I still use Oil of Olay every morning.  And each time, I remember Janet and how she helped me learn to find joy in each moment.

Cutting Back

I realize with dismay that my internal censor has become so severe I’m not even writing much in my journal anymore.  This must change.  I need to go back to Julia Cameron’s valuable concept of “morning pages” where I write three pages each morning and whatever I write is perfectly fine.  Was it the brief and unsuccessful attempt to publish my novel last fall that caused me to shrivel up like a toad caught too long in the summer sun?  Probably.

Onward.  

It’s so lovely out here this morning on my patio—a perfect 70 degrees, flowers blooming, birds squawking in the trees as my indoor cat lurks far below them for her short morning trot in the yard before I lock her up again.  I took a walk yesterday and gloried in the spectacular variety of summer flowers.  I even captured a picture of a black and orange Monarch I spotted resting on a purple butterfly bush bloom. 

Through the wonders of the Internet I finally figured out what the five-petaled pink beauties in the flower bed under the front picture window probably are:  Pink Musk Mallows.  The webpage advises that if we cut them back aggressively in August, they’ll return year after year; I think I must have done that inadvertently last summer.  I vaguely remember buying one small plant with a few pink blossoms from Giambrocco & Sons in the Table Mesa shopping center and planting it a year ago last spring.  Now the mallows are huge, taller than I am, with many pink flowers.  M takes great pleasure in the beauty of flowers, and I love that about him.  So I try to figure out how to nurture them even though I fear I didn’t inherit my father’s storied green thumb.

I’ll wait until the pink flowers are gone before aggressively cutting them back, a ruthless act that does seem to miraculously encourage plants to thrive.

Is the same true for humans?  If you ruthlessly cut back the complications and simplify a life is there a better chance for new growth, new sprouts, new interests?  Retirement is a simplification of sorts—after more than three years, have I cut back enough yet or do I need to further simplify for the growth I want to see?

On the other hand many retired people tend to withdraw more and more from others--and it seems that’s less likely to result in new growth.  So perhaps the analogy falls apart. On the other other hand, if you cut back on connections and focus only on a few interesting people—the quality of those interactions might be much better, and new growth more likely.

It’s okay to cut back, and only focus on what you really need and want.  Those needs and wants may end up being surprisingly few.  In fact, there’s a strong desire for scarcity itself—less noise, less clamor, less effluvia.  Perhaps what felt like atrophy is actually new sprouts, just below the surface, bright green and hopeful.

I wonder if this will get through the censor?

Morning Glory Massacre

Soaked for over a day,
The seeds hold heavenly blue promise.
Carefully nicked then planted
An inch apart in groups of four,
Caressed by the rich earth in the front corner
 Just next to the chain link fence.

Seedlings emerge on schedule only to be
Ruthlessly thinned for their own good.
Each day their growth
Sends soothing green shoots of well being through my heart.
I envision the vines climbing the fence,
The eventual morning emergence of blue glory.
Pride goeth before the fall.

One fine Monday the unintentionally ruthless lawn crew
Diligently edges, edges, edges
The grassy patch of hope.
Off with their heads!
Thus occurs The Great Morning Glory Massacre of 2015.

Now I reach down into the depths of my soul
For comfort, for the right story to tell myself,
For the energy to replant.
I remind myself of various global tragedies, comparing mine.
I pause to breathe.
Then patiently explain the entire story
(Well no, the Reader’s Digest version of the story)
To Andy’s Pretty Good Lawn Service:
Offering reassurances (how were they to know?),
Receiving reassurances (they will take greater care!)

The Dalai Lama said, “Choose to be optimistic; it feels better.”
Besides, I see now that a few seedlings from the first planting survived,
No doubt hoping for companionship--
No doubt optimistic because it feels better.

Flying Into a Rage

"People who fly into a rage always make a bad landing." - Will Roger

I heard a story recently about a romance that ended because the woman, a psychiatrist ironically enough, had a tendency to fly into a rage--an activity I've always believed to be singularly useless. I can only remember actually doing it a couple of times, both of which I thoroughly regret. More often I detour around rage, prompted by numerous signs along the roadside:

Potential Rage Ahead
Warning! Rage May Ensue
Trucks Shift Into Lower Gear, Rage in 1.5 Miles
In Case of Rage, Climb to Higher Ground

Isn't there always higher ground to climb to, or is there a place for flying into a rage? I once deliberately geared myself up to fly into a vicious rage with somebody I loved very much, not to release pent up anger but more in hopes I might finally persuade him to change and choose a less self-destructive path. Here is a list of activities on that same level of futility:

* Banging your head against a stone wall
* Pissing in the wind, tilting at windmills, clutching at straws
* Changing practically anything but your own reactions
* Sewing a cambric shirt without seams or needlework
* Finding an acre of land between the salt water and the sea sand

See also Scarborough Fair with a shout out to folk singers everywhere.
"But everybody needs to vent," you say.

Venting is different--properly done, it's letting off steam with somebody who cares enough about you to be sympathetic just long enough and no longer, lest you find yourself in a rut.  Whereas indulging in full-on rage usually results in your saying hateful things you don't really mean in a nuclear escalation that often includes you subsequently hearing hateful things from the distant past and/or your misbegotten youth.

Instead, release the pressure a bit at a time with patience and direct communication, and nobody gets hurt. Clare Pinkola Estes tells the story of the faithful wife's long search for the tiger's eyelashes, a promised cure for her husband's debilitating post-traumatic stress. In the end, the patience that was required to obtain the tiger's eyelashes was itself the cure.  What her husband needed most was her patience and love.  Rage was just an unnecessary and stressful stop along the way.

All of that said, I am working on being more comfortable with anger, which is not the enemy, but a friend, a signpost pointing to situations demanding a closer look. It is okay to feel anger (and any other feeling), and nothing to fear. The key is what happens next.

Empty Nests

On today's walk I found some branches and leaves scattered on the ground after last night's rainstorm.  And on the rough gray sidewalk an empty bird's nest caught my eye.  It was only later I saw the connection:  after several lovely visits and stays from grown children throughout the spring and summer, the house is now quite empty, our cat commandeering the guest room bed as her personal divan, and fall is fast approaching.

I'm pretty sure birds are unsentimental about their nests once the chicks have flown (as I'm fervently hoping was the case for this nest).  Humans are a bit more complicated: proud of the courageous and independent flying they observe, and yet a little melancholy all the same.

It's small compensation to know we're now free to indulge in various 60-something eccentricities:  strolling down the hallway stark naked after a shower, cooking new recipes that bubble ominously on the stove and later sliding inedible experiments unceremoniously from plate to compost bucket, having long heart-to-heart conversations with the cat about appropriate timing between treats and what effort ought to be made to earn those treats, mildly cursing the iPad when a Scrabble opponent plays an obscure word, having a tad too lengthy a couples conversation about various bodily emissions, reading for hours while eating popcorn, gelato or cheese, watching movies inappropriate for our age, attempting to learn one-footed Yoga positions from a DVD and teetering over, and other activities left to the reader's imagination.

The fledglings' imaginations will fill in the blanks deliciously; or more likely we will rarely cross their minds.  If all else fails we'll serve as horrible examples.  Is the image of an empty nest sad?  It represents those happy fledglings taking flight to go build their own nests. Mother birds have no choice but to rejoice, and breathe in the freedom.  Care for another Cheezit?