A lot of my family's time this week is being spent remembering my mom and also, I think, dreading tomorrow which marks one year since she passed.
I believe that everyone's essence is in their personalities not their bodies. So for me, I feel like today is more of the anniversary I've been dreading since the day before she died was the last time we had a conversation.
Last week I was out shopping and came upon a bin filled with different colored gladiolus bulbs. I was struck by them since that was my mother's favorite perennial. My great aunt and uncle were really into glads (as mom always called them), so much so that they had huge gladiolus gardens around their house.
Mom just fell in love with the flowers and so they would invite her over to pick as many as she wanted to bring home. She loved all varieties of colors and would make a beautiful arrangement with them, admiring them as long as they lasted in their vase. Mom looked forward to gladiolus season every year and could never drive by them without commenting on their beauty.
As I stood in the store I reminded myself that I've never had luck with bulbs in my yard. I think the moles use them as late-night snacks since I lose more every year. But with glads you dig them up every fall and replant them in the spring. So maybe this would work.
I picked out a variety of colors and brought the bulbs home. This week I will find the perfect spot for them and plant them in my yard.
I will honor her memory as I plant them, enjoy their beauty when their season comes, and return them to rest in the winter. I'll remind myself that a great love is always there. Sometimes it blossoms and sometimes it sleeps. But it never really dies.
I had a follow-up appointment with the shoulder surgeon yesterday and he was trying to get a feel for whether I was returning to my previous activities.
Doc: Do you play golf?
Me: No, I play guitar.
When I was in high school, I wanted to be a folk star. Most kids probably dream of being rock stars, but not me.
I wasn't inspired to play and sing because of the Beatles like a lot of people in my generation. I was inspired by John Denver and his acoustic guitar. He also sang in my key making it easy for me to sing along.
When I was young, my mother insisted I take piano lessons. We all did, though none of us kept it up. The lessons helped me understand more about music and music composition and for that I was grateful.
But it was hard to play piano in the living room when everyone was watching tv. And when I got into my teens, I wanted to be in my room by myself more anyway. So the guitar was also a great solution to my music yearnings while still giving me the space I needed.
My folks gave me a "starter" guitar for Christmas when I was 16. Next to my engagement ring 12 years later, it was the best gift ever. I immediately signed up for guitar lessons at the Andover YMCA.
We learned how to strum in different rhythms and finger pick. The instructor also taught us all the major chords we would find in most songs. I played and played until my finger tips bled. But once I got the callouses going, the pain went away and I was able to focus on switching quickly between chords and then switching without having to look at my fingers.
I got a bunch of songbooks (John Denver's was, of course, first on the list) and played songs until I knew them without looking at the music. My guitar came with me to college where I would sit on "the quad" and play and sing for my friends. It also came with me to the beach in the summer when the gang would build a fire in the dunes at night and sing Beatles songs.
Because I was an English major, I started writing poetry and then putting the poetry to music. I wrote some pretty good songs and a friend asked me to record them in his basement studio. Friends added background harmony and instruments. They were pretty sappy songs but I still think they were quite good.
After I was married, I joined the church folk choir where the choir director liked my stuff and had me do quite a bit of playing and singing. She and I also did a St. Paddy's Day gig where I learned traditional Irish folk songs that I perform today.
For many years, I got too busy to take time at night to play - and sing. I actually like to play mostly so that I can sing along. Singing is a bigger love of mine than guitar. Strangely, I sing better while playing, probably because I'm so focused on playing the correct chords that I can relax and not over-think the vocals.
These days I play and sing in church at our circle worship services at night, often with my friend Will on piano and voice (see video above).
Music brings so much joy and, when needed, comfort to others that it's hard to imagine my life without it. When I was in a chorale that went to nursing homes on Saturdays, I saw just how much music lifts us up and takes us back to times of great emotion - happy or sad. No matter how long ago those times happened.
My guitar playing might not be Hendrix-like and my voice certainly isn't as good as Denver's but it brings me a lot of happiness. And when someone asks what I play, I still get a thrill out of answering, "Guitar."
There are times in my life when I look at what I'm doing and think, "How in the hell did I get here?" Today was one of those times.
I've mentioned before on this blog that I lead the church youth group. Kids in the group are from grades 9 through 12.
When I was in high school, I had zero sense of what "cool" was. When I thought I was doing something hip (something I worked at full-time) it was actually quite stupid and goofy. I was made fun of - or worse, ignored - by my peers for most of my teen years. It all changed in college, but high school was a living hell for me.
Ever since then I never knew how to talk to teens. I sort of reverted back to my old goofy self and stumbled over my words. Feeling again like I was that clueless teen trying not to be ignored or laughed at.
Leading this group has changed my perspective on what it is to be a teen. And I know now that I really was a typical teen. The only difference was I didn't wear the mask as well as the others.
Spending Sunday mornings and some Sunday evenings mentoring teens has helped me resolve the anguish I had for all those earlier years. I finally feel like I can be myself around a group that, although no longer my peers, are the very age group with whom I struggled the most.
Sounds crazy. Here I am in my early 50s and I'm just now feeling like I can put my teen angst behind me.
I look at the youth I work with - some of whom I have become very close to - and feel this huge burden lifted. Like it finally came full circle for me.
And when I sat with these amazing teens today, asking them some of the tough, soul-searching questions that no one asked me at that age, I feel like there was a reason for my square-peg status as a teen.
How could I understand now just how hard it was to be a teen if it had been easy? How could I offer a knowing hug, an empathic ear, and a like war story if I had been one of those teens who wore their manufactured confidence like a shield?
I tell the kids all the time that I get more out of my time with them than they do and that they will never know just now much sharing this time in their lives means to me.
Maybe they understand, maybe not. Maybe some of them will get to be 53, connect with teens in a meaningful way, say, "How in the hell did I get here?", and think of me.
I attended the Tenebrae Service at my church on Thursday night. This service isn’t the cheeriest of services because it reflects on the death of Jesus which precedes the celebration of rebirth that is Easter.
People have asked me why the service is so important to me when it is such a “downer.” The answer is not as simple as I’d like but I think it has something to do with my philosophy on life.
There’s a scene in the movie Oklahoma when the main characters’ wedding night is marred by a murder. Wise Aunt Eller tells her heartbroken newlywed niece that as you age you come to an understanding that you’ve got to look at life as a complete picture. To quote Aunt Eller: “You gotta look at the good on one side and the bad on the other and say, ‘Well alright then, to BOTH of them.’”
That quote has gotten me through some pretty serious heartache in my life. I accept that when things are going great, they won’t always stay that way. But when things are not going well, I remember THAT will change too.
Easter seems like the perfect time to connect with that truth. When winter is over and spring has arrived. When the ground softens and reveals its treasures - hidden, just beneath the long-frozen surface.
Tonight I went out to dinner with my cousin on my mother's side. She lost her mom, my Aunt Peggy, not long before I lost my mom.
Cousin Jackie was amazing to my mom when mom was dying. She sent her a card daily for a very long time. Her cards were funny and chatty and just what my mom needed.
Mom always commented that one of the greatest joys at the end of her life was her relationship with her niece. Because she didn't have one for most of her life.
The Powers Girls
My mom and her siblings had drifted into two sides early on. One side was closer to my grandmother; the other to my grandfather. Jackie's mom and my mom were on opposite sides of this game for most of their adult lives. Disagreements between the siblings—and later their spouses—escalated hard feelings and the lines were drawn.
That affected not only the siblings relationships with each other, but their kids relationships with their cousins. Typical family stuff. But I remained loyal to the sides my parents had chosen and that was that.
My relationship with my aunt Peggy's kids started to open up more as we aged but was far from anything resembling friendship. Until recently.
My mom and Peggy (along with their sister, Muriel) started to find middle ground later in life. I was so happy for that since I didn't want my mom to end her life with regrets.
As the sisters passed away, their kids were left with the realization that we never had a chance to be friends.
My cousin Jackie and I bonded as my mom failed. I found that I had a connection with her that was meaningful and helpful. She had lost her mom a couple of years before and knew what I was going through. I found a great comfort in our shared DNA even though we did not have shared childhoods.
We met for dinner tonight. Something we swore we would do more often. We found ourselves sharing the good and the bad of our pasts, breaking down the walls of a family feud where negatives were hidden and only positives were played.
I felt myself freed from the constraints of family secrets. I could be honest and not feel that I was obligated to keep up a facade created by years of defensive posturing. And to prove what? That one side of the family was right and the other wrong?
Right, wrong. Better, best. All to prove one is loved more than another.
Tonight I felt that Jackie and I took decades worth of fences our parents built and continued the work our mothers started several years ago. Our moms mended those fences; their daughters ripped them out of the ground, threw them on a pile, and lit them on fire.
These fences were never ours yet they kept us apart for so long. Tonight I learned that the only baggage I should carry is my own.
As I drove away from the restaurant I felt like I had peeled off all the layers of side-choosing that my mom lived with for years. Layers that weighed me down and kept me from being honest. What a gift to find a friend who was there all along. A friend who had to carry the hurt of her parents for fear of being disloyal. Just like me.
Today I finally went for the polarity therapy session that I've needed. While there, my mind started to wander (as always). I started thinking about everything I carry with me in my purse. It's quite heavy and I continually receive comments about what the heck could be in there. I always respond that I have my whole life with me.
But today as I mentally began to empty my purse and investigate its contents, I realized I really do carry my whole life. And what does that say about me?
My wallet makes up the majority of the weight of my purse. Besides money and bank cards (mine and my dad's), I have a lot of business cards. Not just from people I've met and professionals I work with, but also the cards of friends. I like to help my friends network so whenever I hear a need being voiced, I rifle through my stack of cards and hand one out along with a hefty endorsement.
Also in my wallet are remembrance cards from friends and family who have passed. And old ticket stubs from concerts I've enjoyed. There's a section for pictures there too. I carry wallet-sized school pictures of my nieces and nephews so I can have friends put names to faces when I brag about them.
Since you never know what sort of situation you could end up in outside of your home, I carry travel-sized emergency supplies that would make a girl scout or a Walgreens manager proud. Hand cream, floss, anti-bacterial lotion, lip balm, eye drops, lint brush (it's small, more like a brushette), tissues (the ones my friend Moira gave me that are red and say "Keep Calm and Carry On", more an inspirational item than something I use for my nose, but still....), tape measure (don't laugh, I use this a lot, and so do others when we're out), aspirin, mini hair brush, comb.
The inside pocket of my purse has my own business cards, note paper, tiny address book, mirror, and rocks. Yes, rocks. Special rocks. The kind a sweetheart like my friend Chris would have given you 8 years ago when he returned from a vacation by the sea to let you know that he thought of you when he was there and wanted to bring a piece of it back for you.
When I went through my mental inventory, I realized that I do carry my entire life with me. Not just in my purse but in my person. I have a hard time letting go of things and moving unencumbered in the world. I say it's who I am. My personality; my character.
My birthday was yesterday, the first one without my mom. I had a very happy, fun day but did take some time to think about what my birthday was like when she was here.
Mom didn't carry much in her purse. It was light and open, just like her. She lived her life very much in the present. No baggage.
So what's to be lost by losing the mini-CVS in my purse? Lint on my clothes, dry hands, and a hair or two out of place. Not so bad.
Maybe it's time I start letting go of the tangible evidences of my life, worrying always that I'll need something that I don't have but could if I had only been prepared.
Because the things you carry around that matter are not tangible. Those concert tickets and old business cards are not replacements for the memories stored in my head.
And the rocks. Carried with me for 8 years because I fear that, by taking them out, I am dishonoring a gesture of true friendship. A friendship that is stronger than those rocks, and deeper than any ocean they could lie beside.
I've been overweight for 47 of my 52 years. I've been a faithful follower of Diet Workshop and Weight Watchers in the past (the 5 years I was not overweight was thanks to WW and my speedier metabolism 20 years ago).
Like most women, I compare myself to women who are not overweight and feel even more overweight than I already am. Much has been written about women's self-image and the media's Photoshopped, airbrushed marketing schemes.
I have to tell you that those pictures don't make me feel bad at all. Even if they aren't modified, I figure that if I had a job where looks were all that mattered, I'd spend a ton of time making sure I looked as good as I could too.
Mostly I compare myself to where I was at in my 30s - the 5-year time span when I turned heads. I was blessed with a Marilyn Monroe figure and I wonder now what Marilyn would have looked like in her 50s. She wasn't always a size 8. For quite a while, she was a size 14 and was still considered sexy. I wonder if she would be considered sexy by today's standards.
Because of my CFS, I do watch what I eat. Too many white carbs make me overly tired as does refined sugar. Since I'm a vegetarian, I eat pretty well. Whole grains, steamed veggies, organic olive oil, avocados, and fresh fruit yogurt smoothies comprise a big chunk of my daily diet. But that's when I'm home and cooking for myself.
Once I'm out in temptation land, however, it's another story. When the ice cream stands are open, I go once a week. At a church pot luck dinner, I load up with the bad carbs and desserts. Since I don't have those things at home, I feel I can "splurge." And splurge I do.
This past Sunday, I talked to the high school group about balance. Yin and Yang. The discussion was more about balancing personalities and strengths in a group environment than the Taoist concept itself. A group needs leaders, but it also needs those who can take direction. Group members need to be flexible, but not so flexible that no decisions are ever made.
I'm a big fan of middle ground. Maybe because I'm the middle child in my family. Maybe because, even though I don't shy away from conflict, I don't enjoy it when it gets too emotional.
I thought about that balance when I was out grocery shopping today. It always surprises me that I have the greatest ideas when I'm shopping for food. (Note to self: Need more analysis here.)
I stocked up my cart with fruits, veggies, yogurt, meat (for Ron), spring water, spaghetti sauce, and soup. On my way to the check out counters, I passed a strategically placed display of all kinds of snack-sized chips. I walk past it every week and tune out the call to buy crap.
Today, I decided that balance would win and my unbalanced view of my own self-image would lose. For this one time when the barbeque corn chips screamed out my name, I listened.
Keeping perspective is something I've always worked at and I think, most of the time, I keep it pretty well. When it comes to my weight, I lose my perspective. Maybe those corn chips will serve as a reminder to stop beating myself up all the time and I will remember that there is a place for the occasional junk in my diet.
Maybe I'll be Marilyn Monroe at size 14 and remember that it's not what you weigh that makes you beautiful, but how comfortable you are in your weight.
And if that doesn't work, I'll go out for ice cream - in May.
