Sanity Break
You.
Yes YOU!!!
Step away from the news. RIGHT NOW. Take a deep breath.
Now scratch the monitor and sniff the pony.
And if you smiled, even for a second or two, then I’ve done my job.
Namaste, my sweetums. Namaste.
Suddenly It’s Sunday
I have not been here for a week. Have not written a blog post, have not thought of writing one.
But wait! Wasn’t that something I said I’d do when I redesigned the blog? Said I’d post something every day. Because, after all, I am a super-human, super-creative, super-duper-super-woman extraordinaire. Without the cape.
Capes get in the way.
Oh, whack me upside the head for being such a silly girl. For not realizing that sometimes life gets in the way of good intentions. That sometimes we need to be and do other stuff. And so I was doing. Doing doing doing DOING until my head spun a complete 360 like that kid in The Exorcist.
I was cleaning and clearing Mama’s cottage for the renter. Shlepping stuff up the hill to my place. To the dining room table for further sorting. To the kid’s rooms, the kids who no longer live here so I can use their rooms as storage for saddles and other stuff until I figure out where they need to be…those rooms.
To the thrift stores. And the dump. Buh-bye.
And all the while my head was SPINNING.
Because this week marks the second anniversary of Mama’s one-way ticket to Jesusland. The week she turned to me with such a perplexed expression on her face and asked, “Why is my body doing this to me?” And all I could say to her was “Because you’re so damn old.”
There was nothing more I could do for her except love her and tend to her with my sisters. That last morning, when she could no longer speak, I slipped some shaved chocolate between her lips. Her favorite, Green & Black 85% Dark. Her smile was pure bliss.
A few hours later she died, just a two weeks shy of her 96th birthday. She died at home. In the cottage, the cottage I’m now okay with renting.
Still, it’s been a rough week. Hard work and bittersweet memories. The cottage is clean now, the renter moved in. I still have sorting, distributing and disposing of stuff but the pressure of a deadline is past. I can breathe now. Relax a little.
This evening I went down to stand with the ponies while they had their buckets, their nightly treat of senior chow and supplements. And as they ate I stood there opening my senses to the moment. Taking it all in. The sight of the mud, of hoof print size puddles, of hay trod into the muck. The pile of hair beneath Lana, hair I pulled out by the handfuls last night in lieu of a proper brushing.
But it was the sounds of the evening that rounded things out. The sound of horses slurping. Birds high up in the trees. So many of them, different birdsong, sweet and clear. From down the lane the sound of voices. A small child. Adults speaking. Laughing. And then the music, notes from some sort of flute.
The sounds dipped and wove around each other like music. Subtly so. We’re not talking boom box here. But standing there with my all my senses…with my heart open to the moment…it was lovely.
Here’s a tiny slice of it I’d like to share. A moment in time captured with the iphone. And just so you know, that muck is mud, not pony poop. Well, mostly.
What’s Eating You?
I started writing this post in a rant. A foaming at the mouth fingers burning up the keyboard RANT.
And I had good reason…I had been taunted–positively taunted–by my jeans.
Stupid jeans. Stupid size 8 skinny jeans. The ones I haven’t worn in over a year. Had the NERVE to jump out from wherever they were hiding and remind me neener neener neener…we are skinny. And YOU. Are. Not.
Effing jeans.
Then I pulled out the size NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS fat jeans. The ones that ride low enough on the hips to diffuse the muffin top. Maybe. A little. If I suck in my gut ALL the time. And throw back my shoulders like a Marine on parade. Which I don’t. But I pretend no one else can see it. And then I spend the day pulling up the jeans that are sagging on my butt while tugging down the shirt that’s riding up.
Last year at this time I was in the size 8s. And then I took care of Mama while she died and then–
Oh hell, who am I kidding. Yes, I was in the 8s last year. Maybe even the year before that. But honestly? The entire last DECADE has been up and down with the emotions, up and down on the scale. Because when stressed…I eat. No, no–I inhale anything remotely edible. And with a kid in Iraq three times, an aging mother and just life, you know, I did a lot of inhaling.
And then I’d exhale. Gain. Lose. Gain again. Lose a little. And on and on and on. I have EVERY diet book to prove it. And after reading them I have concluded the only safe food to eat is air. Because everything else packs on the pounds, is bad for the environment and KILLS YOU DEAD.
And calories? They good. They’re bad. They don’t mean a damn thing.
Awww geeze…. I just wanted to run in circles and scream because it shouldn’t be this crazy making difficult.
As it so often happens, the beginnings of the answer hit me when I was with the horses this evening. They are wise creatures indeed…because they keep their mouths shut and let me ramble on. And somewhere in the ramblings the AHA! glimmer began…I need to forget about the books and listen. to. my. body.
I was so excited I hurried back to the studio and began rewriting the post. Which was stressful. Which meant a diversion. No food in Studio Grande so I turned to the next best thing…FaceBook.
And that’s where the glimmer of AHA! became a full-on moment. It was a comment in a thread from Liv Lane’s Build a Better Blog e-class. A closed group where the students share all manner of information about growing our blogs. The comment was by fellow student AnaLisa Rutstein, MA CHHC. As I remember it, she mentioned the pleasure of savoring dark chocolate in the morning. My kind of woman. And then she mentioned being a health coach.
Well, that sounded interesting. A health coach who savors dark chocolate. Definitely my kind of woman. I decided to check out her site. The first thing that hit me was her tag line. “Helping women LOSE WEIGHT, MAXIMIZE their METABOLISM and REDUCE cravings, without deprivation, so they can gain the life they are truly hungry for.”
Hello? Wasn’t that what the ponies and I had just discussed??? Was this synchronicity in action or what?
I delved deeper into her site. Checked out her credentials. And I was impressed. Even more impressed with her philosophy of weight loss, so much so I asked for an interview.
We spoke on the phone tonight. She looks so young in the pictures but her voice sounds so wise. We spoke about life and stress. About the answer being within. About your body KNOWING what it needs. About allowing yourself to FEEL the feelings. About having compassion for yourself.
FEEL my feelings??? Might as well surf in a tsunami. My kid was in a war. My mother died. Job. Family. Money. And on and on and on… FEELINGS? I’ve been putting those suckers on hold for a long time. And compassion for myself…Whoosh. Now that’s a big exhale…. Huge.
This was an interview, not a therapy session. But as AnaLisa discussed her program I felt walls that I didn’t know I had begin to crack. And I knew the most compassionate thing I could do for myself was enlist her help.
So I did. I signed for her Jumpstart. Six 45 minute one on one coaching sessions. Handouts and experiential exercises. E-mail support.
Afterwards, as I was kicking myself for spending the money, because really, there are other things in this world to invest in…I stopped and thought, whoa…how could I NOT invest in myself. Because this is my life we’re talking about.
As I work with AnaLisa I’ll be sharing this journey with you. Not the gory parts, but the illuminations.
Because it’s all part of living the Arty Life.
.
A Celebration of Lives
The traffic was backed up all the way from the freeway exit ramp. At first I thought there had been an accident. And then, as we slowly crept up the road, I saw the blinkers come on. One after another waiting patiently for the left turn.
We were all going to the same place.
The parking lot was full. And so was the church. I thought it was standing room only until an usher pointed me to the choir loft. It was empty except for a black and red walker.
Just like Mama’s.
I didn’t want to sit there.
And then I noticed an empty seat, one in from the aisle. I asked if it was taken and the woman sitting next to it said no. So I sat down beside her. Looked around. There were two overhead screens with text and graphics. Up front, where the altar would be, was a bank of candles. Hundreds of them. Three hundred and sixty-three to be exact.
The program was a single piece of paper folded in half. Inside were the names. Three hundred and sixty-three. Divided into months. I found Edith Lobb under April. The month Mama was born, and, ninety-five years eleven months one week and six days later, the month she died.
The choir loft began filling up. I caught the eye of the woman sitting next to me. We began to talk. It wasn’t the usual passing the time of day small talk between strangers. This was a slow, hesitant dance of conversation. We were strangers to one another and yet we knew we had a profound experience in common–the death of a loved one within the past year.
As did everyone else in the hall.
Hello. How you doin’? was too trite and meaningless under the circumstances.
When. Who. How long has it been. Do you need a tissue was more like it.
I didn’t want to be there and yet, when the invitation came in the mail I knew I had to go. Because Hospice had been there for us when we most needed it. And this event, a reading of the names of all those under hospice care who died within the last year–this event was a way for me to honor the people of Hospice as much as it was to honor my mother.
I recognized some of the speakers, the readers of the names. The social worker who had come to the house. One of the nurses. The spiritual advisor who had been as concerned about me as he had been about Mama.
The music was exquisite. A haunting flute solo. Later some beautiful vocals accompanied by acoustic guitar.
And finally a benediction by the minister. Statement. Response. I don’t recall his exact words but our response was, “We release you.” Over and over. “We release you.” I thought of balloons. Of doves. Of souls tied down by human grief being released, flying free.
In the end, while we were waiting to receive our candles, my neighbor turned to me. “Does it ever get any easier,” she asked. Her loss was recent and double that of mine, two family members within weeks of one another. Within weeks of this evening. Mourning’s early days when life is raw and everything hurts.
I assured her that despite what others had told her, it does get better. That eventually she’d have more good days than bad. And one day she would wake up and realize she was okay. That life goes on and it was good.
And then I told her how Mama’s death had created a rebirth in me. After years of caregiving, especially the intense care required at the end, I was now free to blossom with my own life. My words struck a chord, I could see it in her eyes as she leaned forward, soaking up what I had to say. For the first time that night I saw her smile, a flicker of hope lighting up her face as she nodded her head. Yes, yes.
YES! When the grief clears life is still there. And it is good.
The Candy-Man
I lost Mama this past spring. Actually, I used to lose her a lot, usually in the grocery store. It’s amazing how someone who moved at the speed of shuffle could disappear–poof–just like that. I would go back and forth, back and forth, backandforth until I was nearly crazy, searching and checking every aisle and she would always be one end-cap out of sight. Just one. Meanwhile grocery disaster was occurring in my cart. Melting,wilting, bacterial breeding disaster.
But this post isn’t about misplacing Mama in the local IGA. And it’s not about food safety either. It’s about losing her one last time. Losing her to The Candy-man.
He came when she was dying. At that point in her transition when she had one foot in both worlds. He stood on the far side of her bed and offered her candy. Or so Mama said. She was the only one who could see him. Was this her guide to the other side? Jesus? Or maybe I was witnessing the origin of the old adage don’t take candy from strangers.
He came bringing Tootsie Rolls.
Tootsie Rolls? Not my idea of heaven-bait. I told her not to rush in to this candy offer. Hold out for the good stuff. Go for the yummy rich melt-in-your-mouth dark chocolate. The stuff to die for.
But don’t cross over for a Tootsie Roll. I mean, really…
And I told him the same thing. My Mama don’t come cheap. If he wanted her, he had to up the ante. Trick or Treat candy was low-ball. She wasn’t going anywhere for anything under 72% dark, 85% even better. I had been her advocate and protector for the last seven years, I wasn’t going to fail her now.
A couple days later, two weeks shy of her ninety-sixth birthday, she was gone. She died in her home, the cottage she’d rented from me the last seven years of her life, my former studio, remodeled and re-purposed as the place my mother could live out the rest of her days. We were all with her when her time came–the family, her priest and who knows, maybe even the Candy-Man.
After the craziness, the cleaning, the sorting, the giving away…the sisters returning to their homes on the other side of the country, the other side of the world, Mr. Spouse and I sat down to discuss the cottage. He wanted to rent it out. I wanted to reclaim my studio.
But for seven years I hadn’t done much in the way of making art. I’d given up my galleries and shows and hunkered down taking care of Mama. And doing my day job, teaching. Why did I need a studio?
Because I have dreams, that’s why….
We compromised, agreed on a year trial. See if I get back in the groove of making art as a living. Or not.
The first two months I did nothing. Didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what my artistic voice was anymore. More than once I thought Mr. Spouse might be right, maybe we should just rent the place out. Before I gave up I signed up for an on-line class, Plaster Studio Workshop with Judy Wise and Stephanie Lee. You can get their book here. Matter of fact, buy two. Or three. ‘Cause it’s that good. (You’re welcome, ladies) And that’s all it took, seriously, all it took to spin me around and get the art mojo going again. To start waking up HAPPY. To get my hands dirty and make a creative mess and pull paintings from the center of my soul like I have never, EVER painted before.
I miss Mama, oh, how I miss her. But it’s okay, y’know because I KNOW whatever world she’s in now there’s got to be chocolate. No way she would’ve gone if there wasn’t.
And I’m okay with that.
There’s chocolate in Studio Grande as well, but most of all, there’s PASSION. And I’m definitely okay with that.