I AM REALLY HERE

          Sitting in the middle seat of my daughter’s white mini-van, I listened to her chatter with her long time friend.  The next day, I sat in the same seat and eavesdropped on her conversation with her daughter, my granddaugher.  Every once in awhile, a comment burst into my head, but, before I got a chance to speak, they were onto another topic or story or shared memory.

            For two days I felt invisible.  It was mostly not a bad thing since I understand being with my family was usually all about joining in their lives and doing what was happening:  a birthday, a holiday, a graduation.

            What caused a mixture of feelings to gather in my chest and threaten to spill out my mouth as words or my eyes as tears, was the realization that I was invisible.  I wasn’t even being talked ‘at’ or ‘with’ or ‘around’ but through.  I was just there, being cared for, since I was fed and a bed was provided.

            No one seemed interested in my story of how I got the weed eater to work or how the two weddings I wrote and facilitated went nor did anyone want to hear me read my new short story (the first in three years)?  I did get, “You look nice, Mom!” as a general approval statement.  I searched for any nuance of a sigh that told me she was grateful I wouldn’t embarrass her and was pleased not to find one.

            On one hand, being invisible has its advantages.  I’m free to leaf through my own picture book of memories if the topic of conversation has nothing to do with me.  I can roam around my brain and trace story lines for my next novel or rearrange my furniture.  Just about any kind of mental picture can erupt, as long as I don’t prattle about it out loud.  Rather like my stream of consciousness when I rode behind my late husband on his motorcycle.  Though then, I felt alive with all the physical sensations of wind and changes of temperature and the feel of his sturdy body between my legs and against my chest.  My arms often were wrapped around him, so I remember feeling solid and substantial.

            Now I’m an appendage at times, one more person to find room for in the car.  One more mouth to feed.  Sometimes one more pair of hands to count on for help with a family project.

            I’m not liking the totality of this being invisible though; as if I’m a fading apparition who will eventually dissipate into a memory.

            I’d like to count for something to somebody.  This is what’s spurring me to find some way to be concrete and to contribute to the greater good, either through my blog, my marching with 1000 Grandmothers for Peace, singing with Emandal Chorale, and maybe volunteering at the Mendocino Museum or Phoenix Hospice.  I will allow invisibility with my family if that makes them feel more able to deal with me and what has happened in the last several years.  I won’t allow it in the rest of my dealings with life.

Sky Miracle

     I was late. Couldn’t wait. Out the door I ran but stopped as the phone rang. I hesitated and relented, reaching back to answer after I hear the machine recording a voice saying, “This is Dr. Oliver’s office returning your call.” She was still talking as I lifted the receiver to my ear. “We can see you and your broken crown in 30 minutes.”
     I sighed into the phone, “OK,” and began my list of people to call and appointments to push down my schedule toward the afternoon.
     That was why I ended up standing looking out the window at the Public Health Department in the early afternoon. The broken crown from chewing Super Bowl popcorn and the emergency repair had brought me to an indescribable moment of staring at the pale blue sky and a white puffy cloud thinning as it traveled somewhere and radiated a changing panorama of rainbow colors.
     Amazement filled my chest as I watched the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and lavender illuminated through the crystals of that cloud. Just the right temperature. Just the right angle of the sun to the crystals. Just me standing at the correct angle so I could be a witness to this miracle I’d only heard described in detail on the TV two nights previously.
     Whatever the reason I found myself standing there at that precise moment, I promised myself I would not miss a chance to look at the sky again. I promised I would look up to make the action become my punctuation mark for beginning and ending my day. I decided it would help me remember there is an overview to this experience here on earth. Looking at the sky in the morning, at odd times, at night time, in sun and rain and fog and wind, I have witnessed miraculous images and patterns play across an expanse that’s only limited by where I’m standing on the Earth; by trees perhaps, or buildings, hills, or nothing at all.
     Whenever I stand in the quiet, I can know I am part of it all, of something, of everything, of more than I will ever see or understand. I can practice surrendering to the tides and turns of where I am and what I think I want. Plus, as I settle into my sky-watching perhaps, one day, I will see another perfect miracle of a cloud turning into a rainbow just for me.

It Just Happened!

Maybe it was during the night; perhaps it occurred during the day when I wasn’t paying attention. In all likelihood, it may change back. Whatever! It happened. I realized this morning that I was thinking like a person who was living on my own. There was no one to blame, no one to call to task for being responsible for making my life different than it had been. I wasn’t in a funk. I wasn’t necessarily ecstatic. But I was singing a trumped up tune I enjoyed humming over and over again until I got the final note just perfect.

This understanding came about as I was closing drawers, closets, and cabinet doors after me without thinking about what Y would say if he came behind me and closed them himself. I chose, this morning, to answer the alarm clock with a sigh, reset if for another hour of sleep, and turn over. I had no guilt and didn’t even feel a guilty pleasure in the action. I just did it.

The laundry was in a pile so I started the water heater and the generator without first wondering if it was a good time to make all the noise.

A breakfast of apple crisp didn’t bring with it the need to carefully take my portion and set his aside so we’d have equal sharings. One weekend morning I played Sudoku in bed on my Iphone from 5:45am til 7am then went back to sleep til 10am. The next day I was up at 7am organizing a drawer.

I’ve never lived only in relationship with myself. I was either in my parent’s home and going to school and junior college (20 years) or married to two different husbands at different times (total of 39 years) or living in a dorm (3 years) or divorced with two children (4 years). That’s 66 years. That’s exactly how old I was when this entire disaster engulfed me. Now at 67, I can say I’m merely a woman on my own.

Sometime ago I pasted a few days one spot in my life and two weeks from another spot, and so on, into a lump that reported I had been sporadically on my own for a total of 8 months out of those 66 years. Now I see this current experience was way past due, and I also recognize I have had no idea how to handle it, let alone the idea of being a widow with grief.

So it had to be one thing at a time.

Up until this week, I’ve handled the whole affair as a widow, giving a smattering of attention to thoughts of bills and expenses, bank accounts and CDs, how to purchase wood for the wood stove and dig ditches. Somehow in the beginning I felt as if all I had to do was tread water, and he’d come back, or someone would come back, and I could return to living my life as part of a twosome. Then I began to take classes I’ve always wanted to take like herbal salve making and acting, etc. I’ve driven an hour on a whim to shop or called a friend and talked for an hour over dinner time. I’ve had scrambled eggs at 2am because I was hungry and overbooked myself for volunteer work to the point where the house was a disaster, and I ran out of underwear. I never would have done that married or as a mother.

Just recently I’ve been like a little kid with a new toy, and I can truly say I’ve been enjoying a new kind of freedom. However, always in the back of my mind, I’ve held the belief that this wasn’t permanent. Somehow my old life would come back, except now, I know in every fiber of my being that it won’t.

Selling the tools and machinery is easier this way. Just as it’s less hurtful to clear out his drawers in the roll top desk we were refinishing on our first wedding anniversary. I’m saying words like ‘mine’ now instead of ours. If I slip up and do say ‘our’, it’s no big deal either. I understand what I’m meaning, and it’s finally OK to be with just me.

A Last Look

I keep thinking about the moment of death when the body just stops breathing, for whatever reason. As a nurse for 47 years, I’ve witnessed many of these last moments. Some were not that peaceful; others left the watchers with a shock at how simple it was.

I remember standing with one family waiting and waiting for that next breath until I realized, it wasn’t going to happen. Then I had to return to being the nurse again. I hold it in my memory though: that watchful expectation, never fully comprehending that I’d already viewed the last breath.

We just don’t know when the last of anything is going to be, that is, we can’t name it as the ‘last’ until we get a different perspective from down the road of life.

“Ah, THAT was the last time we danced or sang or made love.” Typically, we didn’t even know it at the time.

I don’t think we hold such memories of “That was our last fight!” or “That was the last time he forgot to put the toilet seat down.” Those observations don’t seem to be part of the cataloguing of memorable moments, which is probably a good thing. The list is long enough if we really want to spend time making one.

The last of anything is just what it says it is. The re-occurrence of any activity in just that manner will never repeat itself. Ever!

In my case, my late husband will never again wear that dickey hat hanging on the hallway hook. I can leave it there to trigger a thought of him or I can pass his hat on to someone else who may wear it. I won’t. I look ridiculous in it. Nor will he ever wear any of his shoes or clothes, but someone might.

He won’t make his special popcorn, but I can make my own, or not. He won’t take my hand and tug me out of my chair and book saying, “Let’s take a walk.” I do sense a whisper in my ear to that effect sometimes.

With his last breath, which made me cry in grief that his life was over and weep with relief that he didn’t have to suffer anymore, he gave his all to his life, our marriage, to me, and to himself. I can only do as much for my own and make more moments memorable and life sustaining until one of them becomes my last.

On the other side of 2011

I really have to admit, life is brighter.

Now whether that’s because I got tired of whining and got myself off the couch, I couldn’t say. There have been many different influences involved in this new consideration toward life. I’ll name a few:

1. The realization that quite a number of people were standing on one foot then another just waiting to be asked to help me hit me between the eyes. Similar to my misunderstanding regarding my late husband’s telepathic power, this misinterpretation of my friends and family plunked me straight into an attitude “if you don’t know what I want, then I’m not going to tell you.” A person can drown if they keep their noses so far in the air during a downpour. Hence, I am now asking for help. (A daunting task, I might add, since I was raised a ‘do it yourself’ kind of girl)

2. The acceptance that I am the creator of my fate came with more ramifications than I had ever considered. Suffice it to say, I’ve experienced (in a recent Avatar training) the profound feelings around this world view. I’ve had to take responsibility for all those actions I blamed on someone else and deal with the shame and remorse, and then I got to embrace the freedom in realizing I can choose whatever I want to experience and create it. That’s heady stuff.

3. Somewhere in there I had the chance to look at myself and come to the decision “I’m happy to be me!” Bubbles of giggles rise to the surface inside of me when I truly feel this statement.

4. Time has passed since so many devastating losses began in 2009. Although I was positioned to look at all these with blame for something I might have done to make them happen, I was also in a place to see that these things just happened. People move on from this life, this town, this environment, my friendship. They are just doing their lives. I have learned that I must too.

There is one more thing. I now have a tool to express compassion for myself as well as everyone I meet or I know. This has been a real gift. If you’re interested, I can send you the wording in a private email. Just let me know you want it by posting me at reiki@mcn.org

As I watch sun rays touch and caress special objects around my home or just light up a corner of my living room in a loving way, my heart thrills. I may not know where I’m going yet, but I do know where I’ve been, and I know where I am!

What a blessing.

Happy New Year.

Confession #2

OK! I can’t do it! I thought I could, but I can’t. It’s too soon. I’ve not unraveled myself enough from my 33 year marriage to step out with another man.

I thought I could translate my yearning for comfort and companionship to an attitude of adventure and searching. The reality is I yearn for Y‘s arms, his lips, his crazy sense of humor, his world view. He was my anchor in the everyday world of living.

I could count on him to be hungry for lunch at 12 noon sharp and dinner at 6 PM. I could depend on his ability to sort through my moments of confusion about a priority, friendships, food preparations, broken equipment and come up with just the right question or observation or capable hands to settle me back into place. Who else could do that? Who knows me that well? No one! And, I have to face the fact that I don’t have another 33 years to break someone into that role.

So here it is again, that grief of having lost my buddy, of wanting my life back the way it was. I’ve allowed this dating service idea to screw with my head, to be the making or breaking of my self worth, and I’m not going to do it anymore. My value is not out there, it’s inside me and here I am learning that lesson again. Maybe it’s one I never quite understood fully until now. Maybe it’s an age old problem we all face again and again.

So I’m sweeping the pieces of myself that splintered onto the floor when I waited for some kind of reply or acceptance from complete strangers on the internet. I’m putting these pieces into a little paper bag and I will reconstruct the Earlene I wish to be. I have a better idea of whom I have been and what I’m about than anyone else. This way if a piece of the puzzle doesn’t fit in one place, I can put it somewhere else and honor the developing picture of me as I go.

Thank goodness I haven’t made too much of a flirty fool of myself. Thank God I looked up the last fellow who gave me his name. Turns out he’s going to trial in January for sexual battery and assault. Somehow the Universe and Great Spirit have a better plan for me or I wouldn’t have gotten that information before meeting him.

There I feel better. I guess confession is good for the soul

I Must Confess

I didn’t realize it, but I inadvertently joined the 39%. That’s the percentage increase of men and women over the age of 50 who are now participants in On-Line dating sites. (I didn’t make that number up. I saw it on the news!)

Being on the leading edge of the baby boomer generation, I’m a little flummoxed by this experience. I don’t feel like a pioneer of the movement or even that I know any of the rules. There are so many decisions to make; I’ve had to take over a month to design my greeting which involves describing who I am. It’s taken even longer for me to figure out what I’m looking for.

I started this experience in June and got so anxious when I received flirts and winks and 24 hits in less than five days, I disconnected from the site.

Now in November, I decided to check out the process again. I’m thinking many men have embellished their descriptions of themselves. I guess women do the same thing. This reminds me of high school where competition for approval and dating social strata was more than I could deal with. When I read these men’s descriptions with such adjectives as kind, sincere, trustworthy, likeable, friendly, with a good sense of humor, and I see they are also divorced, I wonder what kind of woman walked out on that? What are all these men not saying? My cynicism tells me there is a disconnect between their views of themselves and the reality of another person’s observations.

I’m more than a little anxious about one of the characteristics of this site. If I click to learn more about a man, my actions get noted on their personal profile. So since I haven’t been able to keep profiles and pictures straight, I’ve been clicking on ones I thought I remembered to see if I have the correct details. On their end, they must think I’m stalking them. When I save their profile to a favorite list, they know about that too.

I have the same deal, and it has had the effect of making me check the site every hour to see if anyone has looked at my profile. I’m appalled at myself. I’m a grown woman glued to a dating site to make me feel like I’m some kind of attractive. It has done nothing for me but screw with my head. I even squealed when some guy 'faved' me and, so far only one man has. We met for coffee and you’d have thought I was no more that 15 years old. When I’m looking at it logically, I tell myself I’m just trying to understand what the dating scene is out in the world now. When I look at it with a little more honesty, I have to admit living in the mountains in the middle of all this lovely wild life and mountains is a bit lonesome. But what am I looking for? I’m beginning to suspect the experience of being on the site is the end of the process because, after the one and only uninspiring coffee date, I’m not really ready to jump into the next phase of meeting men. That experience took the wind out of my sails. Maybe that’s why I’m keeping the areas of my profile searches limited to New Jersey, Maine, and Florida. I won’t be embarrassed by someone at the grocery store asking, “Didn’t I see you on Senior People Meet.com? Gosh your picture made you look ________!” (Choose your own embarrassing adjective: thinner, younger, more rested, or sexy.)