The Best Laid Plans...etc., etc.

I had it all planned - a special holiday season.  I made lists of possible day trips, restaurants to try, movie matinees, stocking stuffers.  I delighted over invitations to celebrate, each an acknowledgment that this has truly become our home, smiling each time I added another date to our calendar. Even included baking cookies, something I haven't done for years. Mom's chocolate chips and snowballs for sure. My intention - to do something everyday that would make Christmas 2012 the most memorable yet.

It was to be launched with brunch on Thanksgiving Day with old friends, followed by an afternoon spent decorating our 6+ft. Christmas tree. Now, that tree is a thing of beauty, a testimony to whatever creative talents I have.  Gold and copper ornaments amassed over the years (even a couple from my childhood ), plumes of gold tinsel, tiny birds with feather tails peeking out from unexpected niches, glass icicles that shimmer when the lights are lit, and as a topper, an angel that has graced every tree of our marriage.

My planning, my lists, my anticipation grew all month. Like a kid with an Advent Calendar.  With each new Hallmark holiday movie I became more eager to begin, even considered putting up the tree before Thanksgiving, but couldn't convince John, who does well to tolerate my exuberance, to lug it out from the garage and struggle with the lights any sooner than he had to.

Then, on the Monday before Thanksgiving, I fell.  Wrestled with the vacuum hose and lost. Landed on my right knee -  on the unforgiving tile floor - barely missing the coffee table or the metal corner of a side table.  After my initial shock and embarrassment - how could I be such a klutz - and reassuring my terrified husband that I hadn't heard a pop, no bones seemed to be broken, I mentally went through my lists, crossing off the tree, eliminating the parties and the day trips, indulging in one inglorious, adolescent, self-pity party.

In the long days that followed, it became evident that I had injured my knee. To what extent we weren't sure, but I knew that the shooting pains meant something was wrong.  Being a holiday week, typical health care was difficult to come by.  I was able to get advice as to avoiding any further damage, but couldn't see an orthopedist until this week.  So I concentrated on staying off my feet and managing my morale so I wouldn't go down the rabbit hole of dark imaginings and rampant anxiety.  Hobbled around on a cane, and popped Alleves. Kept apologizing to John for being a burden - my declaration, not his.  Kept reminding myself that we have managed much bigger  challenges than this.  That it could have been so much worse.  That other people do, in fact, have it much worse.
And wondered why I had to work so hard to manage my thinking. 

Yesterday, I saw the orthopedist.  The good news - no break, no tear.  Only significant stress and inflammation.  No need for crutches or the wheel chair I had conjured up.  Just a few more weeks of taking it easy, more Alleve and hobbling a bit.  And rethinking my lists.  Maybe not all the events, but some - which ones?  Maybe not the tree, but surely wreathes, and reindeer and candles.  Maybe not the day trips, but restaurants and movies.  This may not be the special holiday I had envisioned, but it will be memorable.  And there will be chocolate chip cookies.

Heeding My Own Advice

My mother called it "contemplating one's navel" - and she had little patience for it - thinking too much, especially about things that can't be controlled or changed.  Needless to say, she didn't keep a journal, couldn't understand why anyone would go to a therapist.

She would use that phrase whenever she thought I was worrying about something or spending an inordinate amount of time and effort to dissect a situation or struggling to make sense out of nonsense.  I would bristle and defend myself.  I used to wonder how she knew that I was, in fact, overthinking, musing, worrying, deep within a maze of my own construction, bumping up against imaginary walls.

I've come to realize that it must be pretty obvious to anyone who is around me for any length of time.  I withdraw, disengage - journal much more than usual, make and remake list upon list, draw mindmaps - and double back again.  Get caught up in circular conversations in my head.  Just like a lab rat in a maze.  Not something I'm particularly proud of.

The good news, I manage to get through a maze much faster these days.  Only a month this go round.

The bad news, the sad news, it took Hurricane Sandy to snap me out of it.  Seeing the devastation, entire neighborhoods destroyed, children lost, lives disrupted perhaps forever. The water, the mud, the fires. Anguish, grief, unbelievable loss.  Every day another wrenching story. A sobering reminder to get a grip! Quick! "There but for the grace....."

Outwardly, nothing much has changed here in St. George.  Yes, it's cooler.  But my vote still won't count.  I know I will worry whenever John so much as coughs.  I can't seem to lose these ten pounds.  TV continues to annoy me.  Strangers will persist in calling me dear and honey. And whenever I enter a room and can't remember why, I still won't like it.

But internally, the walls of this maze have collapsed. The moment even a brick appears, I remind myself of the advice I so easily give someone else - to consider the alternative.  Now, I'm not so naive as to expect I'll never construct another maze and wander around a bit, but  I may just have a couple posters made - CONSIDER THE ALTERNATIVE - so that it doesn't take another disaster to snap me out of it!

A Great Question

I've been journaling a lot lately, more than usual actually, not that you'd know it by my blogging; but those pages, in my virtual journal, are not intended for public purview.  (In fact, I need to put it in my will that they're to be burned!)

I've had the long hot, unstructured days of the Utah summer and the impetus of some introspective reading to ponder a few provocative questions - questions that require significant reflection and potentially painful honesty.  Questions whose answers can be contradictory on any given day, and freqently muddled.  Occasionally, however, if I persist, press through the muck and the mire, I am rewarded with an "AHA!"  So, I keep journaling.

A particularly provocative question, by the author, Patti Digh, has been at the center of my ruminations. "What is the magic yardstick against which you measure your life?"  I've devoted more than a few pages to this question, partly because the standard of measurement, now that I've retired, is still morphing. And perhaps, because I really never took time to consider as broad a question until these past few months.  Too busy, too caught up in daily demands to think this philosophically?!?

I've dissected the success (or failure) of an event or a project; lost sleep considering the quality of a relationship; analyzed ad nauseum why I may feel the way I do at any given moment or think the way I do about a given issue, or person, or myself, but never this particular question.

It's a question I wish someone had asked me at other crossroads in my life.  I might have gotten over my divorce sooner.  Not been so hurt or angry when I didn't measure up to someone else's yardstick.  Not tried so hard to measure up.  I would have questioned not only whose yardstick, but why it sometimes felt as though the yardstick was longer for me than others around me.  I might have taken more satisfaction in my accomplishments.

As the saying goes, however, that's water over the dam.  One of the greatest opportunities of any transition is the chance to take the time to recalibrate the yardstick.  Perhaps to redefine the standard of measurement!  To answer this question, and others of a similar depth, consciously, clearly and confidently.  I'm taking the time and making progress.



Oh, I Get It!

 

"Your library is your portrait"     ~ Holbrook Jackson

 

 

I came across this quote while searching for a quote to stimulate a journal entry and, intrigued by the idea, decided to examine my library for what it might say about me.  Like a portrait or photograph.  What would it convey to a stranger looking at it for the first time?  Who would he/she think I am simply by checking out my books? (Is this why I check out other people's libraries - to get a better sense of who they are?)

 

Interesting exercise!  Obvious, I think, that I learn by reading.  Not everyone learns this way, I understand.  But I have books everywhere.  On shelves, in baskets, on table tops and piles on the floor.  And at least half are non-fiction, even on my Kindle.

 

I love to have choice, options, plenty of resources, multiple resources. No wonder it's been so challenging to cull my library, why I'm still at it after a couple years of schlepping shopping bags full of books to the local library.

 

My history is as evident in my books as in the wrinkles on my face.  Books from my teaching, training and coaching days; one shelf devoted to the non-fiction that has made the biggest impact on my thinking.  Topics I've studied vigorously.  Others long abandoned.  Some I think I should be interested in, but finally admit I'm not.  A record of interests past and present, some attempted, some not. (Why do I hang onto those cookbooks?!)

 

My abiding curiosity about the human condition is apparent in the bevy of self-help and psychology books that date back to the 60's and 70's, as well as in a preponderance of novels marked by strong and interesting character development.  No science fiction.  No romance novels.

 

But most of all, I finally get it - get why this culling process has been such a long drawn out affair.  Why some people can't even consider it.  Books have kept me company during the loneliest periods of my life.  Still comfort me on those nights I can't get back to sleep.  They've provided validation for unpopular opinions, challenged my biases, offered distinctions that cleared the cobwebs of anxiety and confusion, and  raised questions and insights that have led me down paths I might never have traveled.  Their authors have been friend and mentor, critic and coach. They've brought me to tears and called forth waves of laughter.

 

What would it say about me if I could give them up easily?

 

Yup, interesting exercise.

 

 

 

 

 



"Hope Springs"

I hadn't thought about her for years, but since seeing "Hope Springs" recently, she's in the forefront of my memories.  Her name was Jane. I say was because, although I lost track of her,I know she's deceased.  If there is a heaven, she surely has made it.

Jane was 30 years my senior. Soft-spoken,serene, raised a Quaker, she moved through the world with a quiet charm and grace. She gave meaning to a word we didn't use to describe people in the 70's - she was grounded.

I wasn't grounded. One year after a painful and contentious divorce, I vacillated between anger and anxiety. Jane welcomed me, not with pity, but with compassion and an appreciation for skills and expertise I felt had abandoned me.  As we worked together to produce a critical thinking course for a pre-adolescent religion class, she became my anchor, a touchstone for calm and reason. I so admired and respected her. And I envied her - with a capital E.

Jane was married to a well-respected and well-love physician who obviously respected and loved Jane. Greeted her with open affection. Had a pet term of endearment. Touched her frequently. Listened attentively. Everything I had wanted in a husband, and didn't have.

One afternoon, sharing a glass of wine with them in their beautiful and comforting home, I confessed my envy.  There was a quick glance between them, a smile, a nod.  "Oh, honey, it hasn't always been this good."  They then proceeded to give me a quick synopsis of the rocky road they had traveled to get to the state of wedded bliss I was privileged to observe.

A tumultuous road. Nearly divorcing three times until their grown children, weary of the perpetual angst, called for a family intervention - another term uncommon in the 70's!
Their message, their demand - figure out what it takes to be happy together or divorce and get on with life.

With the help of a good therapist, (I now picture Steve Carrell), Jane and Doc came to realize that they carried so much baggage because they had never learned to fight well. Oh, they "discussed" things, increasingly argued, but their arguments were never resolved to  their mutual satisfaction. Usually, it seemed, to Doc's satisfaction. So, after almost 40 years of marriage, raising 4 children together, steeped in Quaker tradition, Doc and Jane learned to fight to a mutually safisfying conclusion.

By their accounts, they learned the hard way - by finishing the old arguments.  Jane, with a twinkle in her eye, illustrated by pointing out the pock marked fireplace, bearing the battle scars of a complete set of dishes destroyed in a fit of frustration and with a dose of satisfaction. Left unrepaired to remind them of their commitment to be happy together. Whatever it took.  Recalling that scene I still smill. I still sit in awe of that level of commitment.

Commitment is what I think "Hope Springs" is about. Not the humor conveyed in the publicity trailers. Although there are comedic moments, this is most definitely not a comedy.
Not even the sexual frustratrations of a long and increasingly unfulfilling marriage. Although the sexual difficulties are the emphasis of the movie, and heads up, there are a couple scenes that could be uncomfortable.  At the heart of this drama is a couple who, like Doc and Jane make a commitment to finally learn how to be happy together. Whatever it takes.

So, I enjoyed "Hope Springs".  I'm pretty sure not everyone would.  It has, in fact, received mixed reviews. I doubt it will earn the amazing Meryl another Oscar nomination. But it is a courageous film, calling for vulnerability on the part of the cast and the audience.  It is a mature film.  Certainly thought provoking. Asking not what it takes just to stay married, but the level of commitment to be happily married.

And who knew that Tommie Lee Jones could be a romantic hero?  Hope springs!



How Quickly We Forget

A sign of the times? With the exception of a few guest appearances on TV by some Olympic gold medalists, the games are "last week's news." All the hoopla, the real and fabricated rivalries, the daily medal count, the endless commentary, the dissection of each performance, the statistics, the broken records - over. The pomp and circumstance, like the flame, extinguished.

I do love the Olympics, especially the summer Olympics, but not for any of the above. Rather, it's the human element that grabs and holds my interest. The individual stories of dedication, discipline, and drive. Dreams realized and dreams crushed. Arrogance and humility side by side. The commitment of not just the athletes, but their families, and coaches, and communities. The incredible sacrifice for the sheer possibility of - in most cases - simply participating.

So, the two moments from these games that I place in my album of Olympic memories have nothing to do with gold medals or broken records. Not even anything to do with US athletes, but rather with two individuals whose names I can't recall, and in the case of one of them, the country she represented.

The first, the young South African runner, competing in a semi-final heat, finishing last, but finishing - on prosthetic blades he's worn since losing both legs as a child. Cheered on by the crowd and embraced by the winner, it didn't matter that he finished last. He finished. And realized his dream of competing against able-bodied runners in the Olympics and making it to the semi-finals. No medal, no beating his chest, no self-congratulatory boasts. Just humble acknowledgment, satisfaction, and appreciation.

The second image - one I caught accidentally. A young female runner, the first woman representative of her Arabic nation. No skin tight leotard for her. Again, finishing last, but finishing. Her own record, though. The first woman - from an Arabic nation!

I've thought about these two young people often this past week. About their courage, persistence and tenacity in the face of overwhelming obstacles, obstacles most Americans can't imagine. Driven, not by gold medals or breaking records, or potential endorsements, but by some inner desire to do their personal best. And in doing so, accomplishing what so many would consider impossible.

I'm chagrined by my ruminations over how to spend my summer. So thank you, wherever you are, for your inspiration.  For reminding me, once again, that what I complain about or fret over is often merely inconvenient or uncomfortable!



Delayed Reaction

July in St. George - the dog days of summer. Daily temperatures between 100-115, driving the snowbirds north and full time residents in search of cooler climates for vacations. Putting many community activities on hiatus for July and August - activities that occupied much of my time these past months.

This abrupt cessation in activity, a regular occurrence every summer in St. George, is new to us, and I have found it disconcerting to say the least. With our house in order, and major projects complete, I felt adrift.  Initially reacted with uncharacteristic angst and anxiety.  I slept poorly, watched a lot of mindless TV, got lost in computer games. Finally, bored and frustrated with myself, I turned inward and dove into my personal journal, writing page after page of "what is going on here?" Surfacing every day just a little clearer, a little more focused.

My conclusion, duh!!!  In retrospect, so obvious. If I were observing someone else, I could have called it in a heartbeat. Having no children, no longer a career, no all-consuming projects (like moving in), no special avocation, and suddenly very little external structure, I'm finally facing retirement straight on. This transition is far from complete.

So, now I'm deep into the my journal considering questions like:

• What, if any, issues have I been avoiding related to retirement?
• How much freedom is too much freedom?
• How many choices are effective? Should I be deciding or continue exploring?
• When is enough, enough?
• Of the several activities I pursued last fall, which do I want to continue and why?
• I most enjoyed my drawing class and suspect drawing could become a true avocation, not just a hobby...so what's holding me back?
• What if I carve out a studio niche? 
• How about returning to college rather than take community courses?
• How can I contribute more to this community that I have grown to love?
• How will I use this gift of unstructured time to create more structure for myself - driven more internally than externally?

Next summer, the only challenge I'd like to consider is how to deal with the heat!!

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