You Are Not Alone

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

~ Allen Saunders

This is a longer and much different post that I intended to write in February.  Life did indeed happen while I was making other plans.  What follows is a compilation of excerpts from my personal journal.  I share them, not to offer any profound insights or solutions, but in the hope that you can identify with some of my thoughts and emotions and find that at least a little comforting.

Mar. 3 - This virus - why am I only attending to it now?  Apparently, it's been ravaging other countries for weeks now.  This is the downside of not watching the news.  How many other Americans are unaware of the problems that may be coming our way?

Mar. 4 - At a recent rally, the President actually said we could wake up one day and it would be gone.  It's one thing for me to be oblivious, but the President?

Mar. 6 - Italy has shut down all of its schools.  And still, we do not seem to be taking this seriously.  This denial and even arrogance is astonishing and bodes serious concerns for us, I fear.

Mar. 9 - Why am I feeling such a sense of trepidation?

Mar. 11 - Italy is in complete lockdown.  I just watched videos of Italians in Siena, Naples and somewhere in Sicily standing on their balconies singing together to try to uplift their spirits.  One of my favorite memories is of a visit with friends to Siena on a bright afternoon, eating gelato among a throng of tourists.  Today both husbands are gone, taken by cancer within the same week and Siena looks like a ghost town. I weep at the breadth of loss.

Mar. 12 - We've canceled our April and May luncheons.  If our government won't give us a clear direction, we have to make decisions to protect our selves and our membership.  I am so proud of this Board.  And speaking of decisions, I am putting boundaries around watching the news.  I've been glued to the TV, seeking information and recommendations from the scientific and medical communities.  But too much information and I leapfrog across depression into despair.  I need to pay as much attention to my mental and emotional health as I do my physical health.

Mar. 13 - Emerging voices are sounding an alarm that we are not prepared for a crisis of this magnitude.  Not enough ICU beds, not enough supplies or personnel should this hit us the way it has hit Italy or Spain.  Not enough people taking this seriously.  The attack on science and our press in recent months has diminished their authority.  I fear this pandemic is going to accentuate the cost of our political polarity and expose the underbelly of our society.  We are certainly going to see an interesting cast of heroes and villains.

Mar. 14 - A FOX commentator asserting this is a hoax, accusing opponents of using the virus to embarrass the President.  This is not helpful.  We need facts and reliable information.  How do I remain responsible and sane amidst comments like this and the name-calling and diatribe on TV and social media venues?!  Boundaries, boundaries!

Mar. 15 - I just created a binder of lists - books to read, friends to contact, projects to complete, topics/ideas to explore, hobbies to take up again, etc.  At least, it helped to restore a minimal sense of control.

Mar. 17 - I woke this morning and set about my usual routine - breakfast, taking a few moments to notice and appreciate the shrub beyond the courtyard wall in its coat of purple spring buds, then curling up in my favorite chair with my journal in hand.  Then, I made the mistake of checking the stats - 4565 cases in the U.S. and 87 dead.  The juxtaposition leaves me at best confused and at worst, anxious.  And if I am anxious, retired here in the safety of southwestern UT, what about all those millions of people out of work, many in congested cities?  How are they coping?

Mar. 18 - Watching views of people ignoring the call for social distancing - or is it that they just don't care?

Mar. 19 - Sixteen months today since John died.  I am taken by a wave of relief that he died when and how he died - his valiant heart simply giving up the struggle, in our home, his hand in mine, my sister here to support me.  How would I have handled watching him struggle for air behind a glass barrier as I have seen images of people in just that circumstance?  What if our doctors have to decide who they will try to save as Italian doctors are facing?

Mar. 21 - Structure, focus, mindfulness, gratitude - I cling to these words.  Far too easy to descend into anxiety or outrage at the ineptitude of our federal government.  Thank heaven for some of the governors who are showing up in this leadership vacuum.

Mar. 23 - Thankfully, I have much to be grateful for - friends checking in, the network of support I'm blessed with, learning to use new technology, spring weather, living in a relatively small and safe community, and always the companionship of my sweet rescue dog, Rufus.

Mar. 26 - The cloudbursts of personal grief seem to have subsided, blown away by the larger sense of loss, existential grief as it were.  So much loss - jobs, security, trust in our institutions, in one another, in the belief that we will be strong enough, resilient enough, smart enough and united enough to emerge from this whole and healthy.  My habit of recording five things to be grateful every night is a sanity saver.

Mar. 27 - I have to remember not to try to make sense out of nonsense - it's impossible and exhausting.

Mar. 28 - Thank heavens for images of individuals helping their older neighbors or the creative uses of technology to stay connected, or the generosity of some of our athletes and celebrities and the amazing courage and compassion of our health care workers.  These images comprise a life preserver in this sea of uncertainty. They restore a sense of hope for me.

That's enough for now.  I hope this does as I had hoped for some of you out there - you are not alone.

Cherish Is the Word

The word cherish is in my reading vocabulary, but not much in my speaking or writing.  Oh, I had promised it would be 15 years ago when I fought breast cancer and realized how many people cared about me.  When I noticed how much I hadn't noticed.  When I vowed I would be more present, more attentive, more grateful.  When I realized how much I had to not only be grateful for, but to cherish and cherish deeply.  For, to be grateful for a red rose or a pretty sunset, to be glad a friend called can become an intellectual exercise, a momentary acknowledgment, a good habit, but a habit nonetheless.  

My intention was confirmed and reaffirmed when, two years later, John was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins, and he received his stem cell transplant.  And survived.

I'd like to say I've lived the dozen or so years since then having kept my promise to myself, but I haven't.  I became distracted, caught up with retirement, and moving, and planning and preparing, more everyday tasks and chores.  I didn't even catch myself up short when John was diagnosed again a year ago.  After all, more tasks to get our "house in order."  More planning and preparation.

Then, last weekend a series of sweet, small events gave me pause.  Telephone calls from old and new friends to see how we are holding up.  To remind me they are here for us.  A visit with dear friends who were about to move.  And another from friends we left behind when we moved.  Hugs and words of endearment and encouragement.  And tears that flowed for days - with sadness and gratitude.  So much, so many to cherish.  How could I have forgotten?

Why does it take a crisis for some of us to remember?  To cherish what we have now.  To cherish deeply what we have now.

Little Things Mean a Lot

Recently, I posted on Facebook -

"A day of simple pleasures...cutting roses in our backyard, a lovely lunch with a fine friend (and a crepe and creme brulee to boot), finding a tiny treasure for my office, an afternoon nap, and a bowl of popcorn while watching the World of Dance with John, who's had a good day too. And off to bed with a good mystery - I'm a happy camper."

I doubt I would have written something like this 20 years ago.   Is it because my world has become smaller and more confined?  Is it because our lives have become consumed by handling more important things?  Is it because the bigger issues in my life are looming as so beyond my control? So far beyond my control that to pay attention to the little things is a matter of survival? 

Or is it simply because I'm older and wiser? Which, of course, is the explanation I prefer!

No matter.  Whatever the reason or reasons, 

• having a good piece of chocolate, well anything chocolate
• seeing a movie with a friend
• watching The Voice or So You Think You Can Dance with John, critiquing the whole way through
• taking the time to enjoy spectacular coral desert sunsets
• journaling on the courtyard chaise in the morning when the only sound that interrupts my concentration is our friendly pair of mourning doves
• laughing at a sacrilegious Facebook post, well laughing in general
• cleaning out a drawer or shelf - I can hear the disbelief now - "you find that pleasurable?" I do, I do.
• watching a baby play, whether a human baby or a puppy or a kitten, a baby
• reading good writing
• hearing John laugh
• holding hands
• learning how to do something new, but especially anything on the computer - John can hear my yell of triumph anytime I figure out something for myself.
• receiving an e-mail, message or phone call from an old friend
• hearing "I love you" and knowing it's true

I can regret that I didn't learn how important or how satisfying this when I was younger, but that's a waste of time.  I'd rather pay attention to these little things.

The Zen of Jigsaw Puzzles

Keeping this blog is finally becoming a pleasure, rather than a project I think I should pursue.  Selecting the quotes and photos, organizing my thoughts, crafting the content, checking to see how well a post is being received, all enjoyable. That is, once I select the topic for the week.  Most often, I churn,  debating ideas, mulling a title, fretting about the opening line, wondering whether this is of value to anyone other than me.  This week, therefore, I decided to put all that on hold and to trust that an idea would simply emerge.  It did.

Last night, I woke at 3 in the morning, a common occurrence of late.  I got up to go to the bathroom and returned to note, again, how grateful I am that John no longer snores.  A result of his stem cell transplant years ago.  I tossed a bit, tried a couple relaxation techniques that sometimes help to lull me back to sleep, and then, unsuccessful, decided to heed the advice of sleep therapists to get up and do something else. 

I padded into the kitchen, intent on getting something to drink before settling down with a mystery and spotted the jigsaw puzzle I have been working on for the past couple days.  A great puzzle with sturdy pieces, an intricate and whimsical picture, bright colors and just the right level of difficulty, challenging but not frustrating.  And close to completion.

For 90 minutes I persisted, patiently and calmly.  I would pick up a piece, examine it carefully, scrutinize the picture. I noted tiny details I hadn't noticed before, variations in texture and subtle differences in shading.  And the more I noticed, the easier it got.  I could pick up a piece and put it down exactly where it belonged.   With a surprising sense of accomplishment.  If not, I would simply place it back in the box and choose another. 

Patient, calm until finally done.  

If anyone had seen me then, standing over the finished product, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, I'm sure she would question why I might take such satisfaction in completing a jigsaw puzzle. And she would have been missed the point.  For I was grinning with the sudden realization that, for 90 minutes, I had been fully present to the task at hand, fully engaged. Not grappling with why I couldn't sleep.  Not chastising myself for not having taken a sleep aid.  Not worrying how I was going to manage today.  Not stewing over this week's post. Above all, not wondering if this is my future, waking, alone, at 3 in the morning to do a jigsaw puzzle. Engaged. Present.

My grin almost dissolved into tears.  For 90 minutes, I hadn't worried about John's health or dwelt on the state of the nation, or chewed on the daily challenges I am confronting with my own aging.  I hadn't turned on TV nor checked Facebook.  I had simply become engaged with something that required attention, complete attention in the moment. Simple, granted not easy, but always available.  Like a good book, or a foreign film with subtitles, or deadheading roses, or really listening to a friend.  Presence, my topic for this week's post had emerged.

Now, I have no illusions that having this experience means I can call it up again on a whim. I have been here before. It's just so much easier to dwell on past memories or future concerns. Easier to be lulled by distractions or caught up in the cacophony of the latest breaking news. Easier to get swept up in emotions (mine or others') or the internal chatter I sometimes confuse with thinking.  Easier, but not very satisfying.

I have no illusions that at 76, I can develop the same ability to dwell in the present as a Buddhist monk who has meditated for decades, or a yoga practitioner, but I am determined to improve.  To at least notice when I am somewhere else and to return to now, the present moment, the only moment in which I have some control.  To restore focus and calm no matter the existing circumstances.  Maybe jigsaw puzzles can become my meditative practice?

Looking for the Silver Lining

For as long as I can remember, song lyrics have popped into my head at the strangest times - a chance remark, a memory, someone's story, or even for no apparent reason.  I'm used to it.  Have come to just let it be when it happens, and trust that if there is a meaning or reason for its appearance, eventually I will make the connection.

Given both the current political climate and our personal challenges, it hasn't surprised me, therefore, that "Look for the Silver Lining" would be echoing in my head for days now.  "Look for the Silver Lining", for folks who haven't heard of the song, was introduced to the world in 1920, made popular by Judy Garland in 1945 and revisited most recently by Tony Bennett in 2015. And though many people may not know the tune or lyrics (which I include later in this post), the exhortation to "look for the silver lining" has become a common phrase used to support people through trying times. 


So, I've taken time to look for the silver lining in John's illness.  Clearly, we would much prefer not to be fighting cancer yet one more time, not to be facing something currently incurable, hoping that a breakthrough will occur, will be offered the next time we see the doctor.  We would much prefer that John have the energy and stamina he used to have. We would prefer he not need regular blood transfusions and chemo.  But having said that, there are other very real, very special side effects that we might never experience without this challenge, and that's the silver lining.  

Of course, there is the obvious - we are more present in the moment, more conscious of how we speak to each other, how we spend our time, the choices we are making and need to make.  As we have been through other crises, yet seem to forget once the crisis is past. We are also more affectionate, more intimate.  More so than we have ever been.  With little gestures, and at odd little moments.  More appreciative of the life we have had together, the homes, the friends, the memories.  We enjoy the little things, the simplest things, like laughing at Paul Harvey's antics on Family Feud, or deciding which judge a contestant should choose on The Voice, and are conscious, in the moment, of our enjoyment.  Then there are the everyday things too easily taken for granted, like the desert sunset or a glass of B and B after supper, the call or e-mail asking how we are doing, the thoughtfulness of the service people who have taken up the slack for us, a favor we do for each other without being asked.

I'm sure there are others who have learned to live their lives this way without incurring a disease or experiencing a disaster.  I'd like to think we might have evolved this level of consciousness and appreciation over time, but I'm not sure that we might just as well drifted along, most days only semi-conscious.  I also am aware that some people never see the silver lining, never look.  For us, this is the paradox, the contradiction, the both/and.  We are fighting for John's life and we are blessed.

Look for the Silver Lining

                            

Look for the silver lining

Whenever a cloud appears in the blue

Remember somewhere the sun is shining

And so the right thing to do is make it shine for you

A heart full of joy and gladness

Will always banish sadness and strife

So always look for the silver lining

And try to find the sunny side of life

Nevertheless, He Persists

John is my husband of 34 years, my best friend, my partner, my love, and my hero.  My hero, because over the years, I have watched him endure three bouts of skin cancer, five hernia operations, the gradual loss of hearing, and a stem cell transplant for non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma.  Each time with perseverance, courage and a belief that he could handle whatever was thrown at him.  And he did.  And so, we did.

Last September he was diagnosed with Therapy Related MDS, ironically brought on by the transplant he received 15 years ago, the result of a mutating chromosome impacting his ability to produce red blood cells. One of his first questions was whether there was a gene for orneriness, for though we have been told his condition is currently incurable and the prognosis for survival is approximately two years, he is determined to prove the experts wrong.  After all, the original lymphoma prognosis was three years and he made it for fifteen!

His determination and his persistence are remarkable, and perhaps the most critical reason he has survived so many physical challenges with a modicum of grace.  I watch him as he gets chemo shots for five consecutive days each month, wait with him to hear if he might need another transfusion (we've lost count of how many now) and marvel that he can get yet another round of Neupogin shots for declining white blood cell counts with calm acceptance. The most he has ever complained is to say he is feeling like a human pin cushion. The most impatient he becomes is when he has to wait more than 15 minutes for an appointment.  I can almost predict the moment I'll hear, "C'mon doc, I'm ready," 

I have always ascribed his survival to resiliency or to pure stubbornness, to that hypothetical gene for orneriness.  Today we had an exchange that made me reconsider.  We were driving back from an appointment with the eye doctor, because on top of everything else, John was diagnosed with macular degeneration earlier last year.  The diagnosis today confirmed our observations that his eyesight is worsening, perhaps the result of the chemo, and our decision to curtail his driving, though difficult, is appropriate. I told him how much I respect him, how much I admire his inner strength.  How much he inspires me to remain optimistic, to stay strong, to fight the good fight.  How much he is my hero.

His response was to repeat a quote I had never heard before.  "Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent." ~ Ray Kroc,  the founder of MacDonald's. Persistence, determination, not stubbornness, not orneriness.  I asked when he first came across the quote; he said many years ago.  He had to look omnipotent up in a dictionary, but the quote has been one of the most important in his life, and consequently in ours.  I asked if it has become a silent mantra.  He paused and said no, he just has tried to live his life with those values at his core.  And in my experience, he has.

There are many people who, over the years, have commented on my strength.  I know I would not be as strong as I agree I am were he not as strong as he is.  As persistent and determined as he is.  He is my best friend, my partner, my love, my hero.

Thank you, Ray Kroc.

The Sounds of Silence

Silence has not always been comfortable or comforting for me.  Silence - not merely not talking or being alone, but true silence, no music, no TV.  No computer, no digital reader, no background noise, no distraction.  Just me, my thoughts, my surroundings.  Quiet, stillness. Quiet enough to hear my breathing, to feel what I'm really feeling, to hear the inner dialogue that I would rather ignore.  Silence for a great part of my life was disquieting.

I have a long history with trying to cultivate a friendship with silence. I cannot count the times I tried to meditate and gave up, unable to still what Buddhists aptly call my "monkey mind" for even a nanosecond, unable to resist rebuking myself for my inability. It was challenging 40 years ago when I first tried, virtually impossible, even without the many distractions available today.  I was newly divorced , living alone for the first time, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions and an uncertain future.  So I turned to journaling.  To slow down the chatter, to capture it on paper so I could see what I could not bear to hear.  

Over the decades now, I've written on loose leaf paper, in college composition books, in Italian leather journals with gilded leaf edges.  I've written snuggled into the corner of a couch or a favorite comfy chair.  On airplanes, in hotels, late at night when I couldn't sleep, in the middle of the day when I found myself obsessing with an idea for a project or a problem that needed resolution.  Initially I had to have background noise, other people nearby, the TV, eventually soothing music.  

But I wrote almost every day.  I wrote when I didn't have anything special to say.  I wrote when I thought I had something profound to say (on rereading some of it, I only thought so.) I wrote when I had cancer and I wrote volumes when John had cancer.

Along the way, journaling evolved from habit to routine to cherished ritual and without realizing it, I learned to slow down the chatter, turn down the volume.  I became comfortable with discomfort.  I turned off the TV,  turned off the music.  I remained quiet after I stopped reading or writing.  I discovered solace in the sound of a distant mourning dove.  Came to hear the breeze in the trees outside our home before I could feel them.  Began to listen for the spaces between sounds.

Maybe I assign too much credit for this to journaling.  Maybe this comes naturally with age, with weathering personal loss, with being unwilling or unable to endure the assault of modern technology, the incessant noise.  Maybe I would be welcoming silence without all those composition books and gilded journals.  Or maybe it's that the distractions have become something to distract myself from?  But I look at the folks with their earbuds, and phones and tablets and wonder if/when they will make friends with silence. 

Sometimes, in the total silence of the night, when John reaches out to take my hand, or I reach out to reassure myself that he is still there,  the sudden thought that I might face this silence alone can take my breath away.  But now, more often that not, I reassure myself that I can.

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Dancing in the Rain

You'd think I'd have learned this lesson sooner in life.  Heaven knows, I/we have had plenty of opportunities, but it took a wise and gentle doctor to bring it home recently.  

John's hematologist must have some psych courses in his background because he has an uncanny ability to deliver information in a direct, yet compassionate manner at  the most opportune moment. It is one reason we so trust and respect him.  From the day he delivered the diagnosis and prognosis of John's disease, he has never failed to be forthright and considerate, consistently striking that tenuous balance between reality and optimism, a balance too few physicians have yet learned.

He also is a natural mediator, sensing when to speak directly to either of us or both of us as the case seems to warrant.  So, whenever John wants to do something that I fear may be detrimental to his well-being, or I want him to do something that he does not feel ready to do, we turn to Dr. W. and ask him to arbitrate.  

One of those occasions occurred a month ago, when John wanted to go to a nearby casino to celebrate his 75th birthday.  As infection is a threat to John's survival, I have been adamantly opposed to any large group gathering for either of us, and especially so to the casinos.  And John has been remarkably agreeable, a great patient.  This time, however, he persisted.  It was, after all, his 75th birthday, or as he puts it, the 50th anniversary of his 25th birthday.  Fortunately, we had a doctor's appointment within a few days of his birthday, and we agreed that if Dr. W. gave the ok, I would concede to John's wishes.  If not, he would comply.  

The day arrived.  We went through all the preliminaries, weight, blood pressure, temperature, blood test results, the list of typical questions and answers.  And then John posed his request.  Dr. W. paused, looked at John, looked at me, paused again and then - first to both of us, "I don't want to cause any marital discord here."  Then, at me - "We're not keeping John alive at the expense of his quality of life."  Then, at John - "So, I think you should go, but do it wisely.  Take intelligent precautions.  Have a good time and happy birthday."

We did go to the casino.  We went early and he wore gloves while he played.  A few days later, my sister and brother-in-law surprised him for his birthday with a visit from NY.   We had a small party with his Starbucks buddies and a get together with friends. He received several cards and calls and e-mails.  All in all, he had a great birth week.

I've returned to that conversation several times in the interim.  I realize that I've been hoping this storm might pass.  If we are vigilant, if there are medical breakthroughs, if I can protect him.  But the reality is it might not.  So, I'm not throwing away the umbrella or rain gear, but I'm trying to splash in the puddles.  To consider every day some ways to celebrate that we can still go out in the rain together.

Escape Is Not a Dirty Word

"None of us can face what's happening head-on all of the time."

~ Sheldon Kopp

What Took You So Long?

Reading Sheldon Kopp's If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him in the 70's was life-changing.  I came upon the book on a bookstore table while on a mission to get past the anger and self-recrimination following a painful divorce, convinced that someone smarter than me, wiser, could provide a road map out of the angst and confusion that was overwhelming me.  I think I had read a half dozen self-help books by the time I came upon Kopp (easy to do in the 70's) and still hadn't found that map.  And there he was, telling me I had to create my own map, that there was no guru, no Buddha out there to show me the way. Or as he stated pretty succinctly in an 'eschatological list' at the end of his book - "it is so very hard to be an on-your-own-,take-care-of-yourself-cause there-is-no-one-else-to-do-it -for-you adult." I had to chart my own course.

Initially, I threw the book across the room.  Then, picked it up and read it again.  And over the years, have revisited parts of it several times.  Whereas he never intended to be another Buddha, his exhortation to take charge, to take responsibility for my life has never left me. 

So, it was intriguing, to say the least, to discover while recently culling my library, that I own another of his books, one that I hadn't revisited for many years.  What Took You So Long ? An Assortment of Life's Everyday Ironies is a slim volume of photographs illustrating simple, insightful statements written by Kopp in the late 70's.  Whereas The Buddha contains language and references that definitely are dated, this little book could have been written yesterday.  

Consider - "You wait for everything to be all right, knowing all the while that the next problem is in the mail" or "Not everything worth doing is worth doing well" or " Unable to get our own way, often we settle for trying to prevent other people from getting their way" or "If we allow pain more of our attention than it requires, we miss some opportunities for joy."

Any of these - and several other - statements continues to ring true for me, perhaps even louder at this stage of my life, but the statement about escape is a welcome reminder, a suggestion that it may even be necessary to take a break, to escape for awhile, without feeling guilty.  Because "often things are as bad as they seem" and yes, "no one can face what's happening head-on all of the time."  So, I'm taking a recess from Facebook for awhile, from all the petitions and surveys, from all the outrage and angst, the venom and the vitriol, from all the requests for contributions.  I'm reading a new mystery series, potting some succulents, redecorating the guest bathroom, working on a jigsaw puzzle, starting a new still life.  It'll all be there when I check in again.  All the worry, all the outrage, all the divisiveness, all the drama. all the challenges.  For now, I choose to escape - for awhile.

And once again, wherever you are, Sheldon Kopp, thank you.

A Work in Progress

"Routine, which I used to scorn as next door to incarceration, holds new appeal for me."
~ Carolyn G. Heilbrun
The Last Gift of Time

First, before I go any further, a few words as to my short hiatus from posting.  Given John's illness, I want to reassure anyone following the blog for some time now, we are fine.  Just have been busy fending off the imps of technology.  First, the printer, then the computer, and even my Kindle acted up.  But, and I say this with some pride, I handled it all and did so with patience, a modicum of grace, and success. (And yes, with the help of some patient, competent technicians.)  Not bad for someone who not long ago was afraid that I would break the computer if I hit the wrong key.

Now, for the Heilbrun quote.  I've been reading The Last Gift of Time for a few days now - one of my new habits, reading inspirational material as part of my morning routine.  Among the many sentences that caught my attention for its clarity and significance, this one captured an awareness I have had for some time now, but could not express with such eloquence or brevity.  

Like Heilbrun, I have a long history of resisting routine, seeing it as impeding my sense of freedom.  Lacking creativity and spontaneity, "next door to incarceration."  A psychologist might suggest this was a normal reaction to being raised by strict disciplinarians and taught by even stricter Catholic nuns.  I told myself that I needed more choice. I loved the individualized teaching methods of the 70's and 80's, no fixed curriculum for me.  And when I led my own training courses, I took pains to be sure no one course ever looked like another.  I could redecorate every month and have had to work, really work, at not starting yet another project, pursuing another hobby.

Upon retiring, however, habits and routines  took on a new meaning. The most obvious reason I began to concentrate on developing habits was to compensate for my " normal aging brain," as my doctor labeled it.  You know - where did I put my keys? What's her name, what's that word?  Why did I come into this room?  Surprisingly, it didn't take very long, well longer than 21 days, to recognize that habits and routines could actually increase my sense of freedom rather than confine it.  Freedom from worry and anxiety, freedom from stress, freedom to put my attention on something other than retrieval.  

So, I started with the obvious, the same place for my keys and sunglasses.  Grouping items by function and always, always returning them to their home.  Making lists and checking them twice.  Keeping one master calendar.  Developing schedules to address my needs rather than someone else's.  The behaviors organized, disciplined folks develop at a much younger age.

Last fall, when John was diagnosed and our lives took on chemo treatments, doctors' visits, medications, a state of hyper vigilance, these habits sustained me even as new habits and routines were demanded.  Sterilizing surfaces and materials often, communicating with friends and family more consistently, checking for potential obstacles, asking for help, etc., John's physical health and my mental health depend on them. They keep us grounded and provide a sense of stability and normalcy when any day can present a new and unexpected challenge.  They keep me tethered to today rather than floating away in sea of future uncertainty.  A computer glitch is just that, a glitch, not the cause of a meltdown.

Have I become a creature of habit?  Hardly.  Not after decades of denial and outright resistance.  But I can see the fruits of my labor.  I can feel the shift in my thinking.  Do I wish I had learned this sooner, well, maybe.  For now, let's just say I'm a work in progress.

Breathing Space

"My desire to be informed is currently in conflict with my desire to not have my head explode or spend all day sobbing in the fetal position."
~  Christine Organ

While I haven't spent a day sobbing in the fetal position, I have been fighting a bug all week - a sure sign that I have been spending  too much time on Facebook, and too much time listening to what is loosely called news these days.  Too much time distressed by the steady stream of innuendos and accusations, and checking snopes.com to sort the truth from the distortions and outright lies.  Too much time blocking the steady stream of anger and venom spewed from supporters and dissenters alike.   Too much time appalled by the cursing, name-calling, and personal attacks from all quarters. Too much time struggling to maintain some sense of hope that our system of checks and balances with be sufficient to curtail an agenda and its proponents that I find disheartening, to say the least.  Too much time fending off my fear that it may not be.  And that I will be left alone in a world I do not like.

However, if I've learned anything about illness these past few years, it's that it is a great opportunity to reassess and renew.  So, after a brief period of chastising myself for not putting tighter boundaries around this circus, and feeling just a bit sorry for myself, I stepped back and reassessed and renewed.  I watched only mysteries and ice skating on TV (and Family Feud with John), ate my favorite comfort foods, stayed in my nightgown and robe all day, and napped whenever I felt like it.  After all, I am retired.  Finished three novels, reviewed last year's journals and found my way back to a couple hobbies.  Had a few telephone conversations with old friends,  catching myself when we strayed too long into politics.  Even managed to catch up on laundry and create another donation for Catholic Charities.  I did check Facebook daily,  still responded to surveys, added my name to a few petitions, even made a couple calls to my elected representatives.  But I timed myself and put tight boundaries around what I read and what I responded to. 

In the process, I discovered, well, rediscovered that it isn't an either/or choice between staying informed or staying healthy.  It is a matter of choosing how to stay informed so that I can remain healthy, not only physically, but emotionally and mentally. It requires, for me at least, choosing carefully where, when, and how I get accurate information.  It requires boundaries around how much time I spend doing so, and to which voices I listen. It requires that I focus on my priorities - John's health and my health.  It requires periods of rest and recreation, breathing space.

This morning, finally feeling better physically, intent on finishing this post, I checked my e-mail and found a message from a special friend - that friend who though miles away seems to sense just what to say when I most need it.  She shared some words of wisdom from Michael Moore that put my thinking of this past week into crystal clear perspective. 

"This morning I have been pondering a nearly forgotten lesson I learned in high school music. Sometimes in band or choir, music requires players or singers to hold a note longer than they actually can hold a note. In those cases, we were taught to mindfully stagger when we took a breath so the sound appeared uninterrupted. Everyone got to breathe, and the music stayed strong and vibrant. Yesterday, I read an article that suggested the administration's litany of bad executive orders (more expected on LGBTQ next week) is a way of giving us "protest fatigue" - we will literally lose our will to continue the fight in the face of the onslaught of negative action. Let's remember MUSIC. Take a breath. The rest of the chorus will sing. The rest of the band will play. Rejoin so others can breathe. Together, we can sustain a very long, beautiful song for a very, very long time. You don’t have to do it all, but you must add your voice to the song. With special love to all the musicians and music teachers in my life."

Although this is a decidedly political statement, it speaks to me in other ways, for the challenges John and I face together.  I need to remember MUSIC...to take a breath now and then.  To let the wonderful chorus around me sustain the note.  It may take awhile, but I will rejoin them when I can.

PS.  A special thanks to everyone who reminded me on my 76th birthday yesterday of just how wonderful my chorus is.  You made my day!!

Today Is a Good Day...

"Today is a good day for a good day."

I don't know the origin of this quote, but I've been repeating it often of late.  I first heard it used on an HGTV series, Fixer Upper, with Chip and Joanna Gaines.  It not only makes me smile, but reminds me to declare each day as a new possibility, regardless of the state of the preceding day. 

It's not that I'm into denial.  I certainly know bad things happen to good people.  I believe we are in for some rough years ahead with the division in this country and threats around the world.  I understand full well that "aging is no place for sissies."  I face reality every time John needs another transfusion or I hear about another Trump nomination. 

In order to have some good days in spite of all that, however, I am focusing on what I/we can control.  I read my news from a source I trust. I call my representatives to express my opinions and concerns.  I take appropriate surveys.  I try to influence others to do the same. I make sure we stay in regular communication with the cancer clinic.  I learn as much as I can digest about John's condition so that we do our part in his treatment.  

And I repeat, sometimes more than once a day, "today is a good day for a good day."  It reminds me to focus on those things and those thoughts that contribute to a good day.  For me, that includes spending time with John.  It includes contacting a friend, taking time to journal and to read something inspirational.  (Right now, that's The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle.)   It includes limiting negative news as much as possible, whether on TV or Facebook.  And spending time on a project whose completion brings me satisfaction, like simplifying our home or drawing.

It also includes watching something entertaining on TV.  When I had cancer some years ago, I watched every Fred Astaire or Gene Kelley film I could find.  I know every lyric to the songs of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and can quote much of the dialog of The Princess Bride and The Wizard of Oz.  And I confess, I'm a sucker for Hallmark movies, especially over the holidays.

I could wish I had come across this quote years ago.  It might have made some difficult periods in my life easier to endure, but I suspect I might not have had the wisdom to appreciate and use it.  For now, therefore, I am adding this quote to tonight's list of gratitudes, followed by "it has been a good day!"

 

Keep It Simple Sweetheart

"Life is simple, but we insist on making it complex."

~Confucius

I think most people would understand were we to choose not to decorate for the holidays this year.  Coming off a rough month for both of us, we are weary.  But having had to forego our Thanksgiving tradition with friends, and having spent so much time last year organizing decorations for an easier holiday this year, we decided to go ahead, albeit more simply.  

So, our Christmas tree, a bit smaller than last year's, is up, decorated and topped with our traditional angel.  The mantel, with fewer ornaments than last year, is lovely nonetheless.  A few of our other decorations rest in their usual spots - not ready yet to give up my Santa collection or the large bowls of beautiful ornaments.  But several items are destined now for other homes and newer memories.  Simpler, not abandoned.

The effort has been well worth it.  First, decorating together is just plain fun and it was rewarding to see that my efforts last year were worth it.  Not only fun, but easier than usual. Second, we both love the look and feel of our home at the holidays and would have missed it. Third, while almost everyday brings new information, new challenges, a new normal, this is a cherished piece of the old normal.  Fourth, when there is so much out of our control, decorating, (and deciding what to let go), is something we can control.  

Most valuable, however, has been the recognition that not only do we need to simplify our home for easier maintenance and a calmer environment, but we would benefit from simplifying our efforts, our habits and routines as well. This is a project to do together and one that will keep us on focused on the here and now, rather than worry and fret over a future we can't control.

So, we've started, not just to be better organized or reduce clutter (a goal I've been working on ever since we merged two homes into one), but to simplify, to make easier to manage, to reduce maintenance and effort, to reduce the complexities. A different set of criteria. 

After only one week, we have made a small dent, and it's already clear that this will take a different way of thinking.  We will do well to remember why we are doing this.  We will have to focus on what we are gaining rather than what we are letting go.  We will have to pace ourselves, to keep our approach and strategies simple, too.  One collection, one box, one cupboard, one drawer, one pile of papers.  Our mantra...keep it simple sweetheart.