Author: Janewms17

curious . . . loving life (most of the time, at least) . . . learning to let go of fear . . . walking a path . . . healer . . . writer . . . hopeful . . .

When Life Goes Wrong . . . or Right?

I’m awed by the bounty, how life goes wrong/a thousand ways. (Robert Lowes)

I wonder — when Lowes remarks that he is awed by how many ways “life goes wrong” . . . what does he mean by “wrong”?

I have often been stunned by life’s sudden departure from what I expected. Recently I got a call from the retirement center where my Dad lives independently. He had been rushed to the hospital in extreme pain of unknown origin. At 95 years old, Dad needs an advocate when he requires medical care and one of his children tries to go with him to doctor’s appointments etc. I was more available that day than my sibs so I drove the 1 3/4 hours to get to him. “Available” means that, fortunately, in retirement I can rearrange most things and be present when needed.

Dad will need to be in rehab and there are questions about what level of care he can return to in the future. So life has “gone wrong” in its departure from what all of us expected for that day when the retirement center called . . . and for the days that will follow.

I suspect many of us are experiencing lives that are not what we expected prior to March 2020. COVID and the shutdown, then the premature openings that caused infections to rise and overwhelm our ICU’s and hospitals. . . Who could have predicted such disruption? And, although many seem unable or unwilling to accept facts, we won’t be returning to the previous “normal” any more than my Dad (and my sibs and I) will be returning to his “normal” independent living status.

When such “life gone wrong” events happen, we can chafe at change. Rearranging one’s life to meet new challenges or to accept new behaviors or to take steps into the unknown, unplanned-for future is a great and exhausting challenge to most of us. And yet . . . it also has a flip side of opening us to possibilities and opportunities and awarenesses we couldn’t have imagined in our lives before it went off the rails.

Yes, grief and letting go are a necessary part of the process of “life gone wrong” for we have likely become attached to what we had or thought our future would be. But if we can name and accept our anxiety at no longer being certain of our path, we can begin to see that a path (or many paths) stretches out ahead of us even if we cannot see an end point. And we can work on shaping the path as best we can and choosing what to pursue and what to let go of with grace.

We can see “life gone wrong” as a gift we wouldn’t have chosen but that opens up new interests, possibilities, and/or challenges. Even if “life gone wrong” has imposed limitations to what we can accomplish — or limits on the time we have left — knowing those limits can make today immensely precious. Whoever penned Psalm 90 (“teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts to wisdom“) most certainly had experienced “life gone wrong” and learned the agonizing yet priceless truth that the present moment is precious when lived with gratitude and awareness that there is no promise of a tomorrow.

I would never have chosen to live through this era of COVID, or seeing our politics take fascist turns, or being isolated from family, or seeing (and experiencing) individual and family struggles that ache and wound and kill. But I would never have known how much my country, my spirituality, my values, and my relationships mean to me without it — because “life gone wrong” has shown me the ugly possibility that we can lose those things we expected would be there forever.

Summer 2020

It continues . . . the world outside my windows, I mean. It looks nearly the same as every previous year. Blue sky, white clouds, my brimming garden of blooms. But something is different this Summer 2020.

That something different keeps me from having coffee with friends. No wine with Diane at Edge or quilting circles with Ellen and Padma and Ana and Lois. No shared space with my womens’ circle of friends — we’ve met together for over 40 years but not this year except by Zoom. No eucharist shared in a chapel sanctuary or in a circle outside. Worst of all, no hugs with my dearest sister, Karen. I miss those hugs the most.

Damn you, Covid 19.

Last winter, I planned (without a thought that such plans could be negated) to do garden work with Karen, do puzzles with our Puzzle Club (“Where Friends Gather To Put The Pieces Together”), maybe take a couple of weekend trips to nearby civil war sites with Bill. Now, I am painfully aware that such things likely will be impossible — in 2020 or maybe in my lifetime.

I am frightfully aware that an innocent mistake (I forgot to put on my mask when I went to pick up medicine for my cat) could result in serious illness or my death. So could something simple like being bumped by someone in a grocery store while picking up a necessary ingredient for tonight’s meal, or socially distanced visiting on a friend’s patio where another visitor unknowingly has the virus, or having an in-person ophthalmologist appointment to get a new prescription for lenses. I am keenly aware of risk and take precautions but all it takes is one misstep and this invisible menace can pounce.

I don’t dwell on this each moment. It would make me crazy. But it is exhausting to have to retain some level of alertness in order not to “forget” caution and not to revert to “old” ways and customary behavior.

So it is Summer 2020. A new experience at age 71 . . . and wondering what will be next.

Sisters

My sister is the one I turn to when I want to share something. She always helps me feel better if I’m feeling scared or sad. I know she is there and loves me. If something wonderful has happened, she knows just how to celebrate.

It hasn’t always been easy between us. I am the Elsa, the oldest sister. She is the Anna, the younger of us by 6 years. When I graduated from college, I went home until I began work on another academic degree. Karen was almost 16 and as a middle child was a peacemaker and very sensitive and compassionate. My parents and I were having a tough time — conflict arose between me and my Dad. He was a military chaplain and I was an activist whose antiwar stance was rooted in the values of the faith my parents had instilled in me.

Karen was then in her late teens and admired me as her big sister. She was caught between our parents and me. I saw her as siding with our Dad. Although she tried her darndest to strike up conversations with me and even mimicked how I dressed. I avoided her. I resented her company when she asked to ride into town with me whenever I left the house.

Why did I feel that way? I didn’t like who I had become — I was lonely and lost without my campus comrades. I was struggling to work out what believed, what I loved and what I wanted to do rather than simply what I opposed. I had more questions than answers at that time, and I didn’t feel like any kind of healthy model for anyone else.

Karen’s admiration made me painfully aware of how lost I felt. One evening she followed me to my car and asked if she could come along. Something in me snapped. I don’t remember what I said but I know it was hurtful because I wanted her to leave me alone. I chose to verbally attack her where it would hurt most. It took many difficult years for her to let me near her heart again. She built a wall to protect herself from my hurt. Eventually my apologies and attempts at rebuilding trust met her brave risk at opening herself to me. Now we share hearts and even souls. Her life has blessed me in many ways. I am grateful.

Justice

Flickering flame. . . Come and blaze brightly in this world, Illuminate the malevolent prejudices we hide from ourselves or dare only speak in whispers to fellow travelers. Come, spark of justice, now bent and blown but not extinguished . . .shrunken,    choked, contained in lanterns and candlesticks and words on crumbling paper. Leap, Flame! Leap free and burn away the fragile cages we have built around you. Leap, Flame! Burn away the darkness and cowardice in us. Leap, Flame! Light the inhumanity of the past and present so we cannot excuse our sin. And then enlighten us. Kindle the dead wood of our hearts into wild bonfires of action that cannot be contained by counterfeit militias or white-robed pretenders. Set the desire for Justice ablaze in every heart.. Blaze, flame, leap heavenward! Dance flame, dance until all the world is full of Light . . .  and darkness and death        shall be no more.

Spring 2020

Mini Iris that are beginning to bloom just now.

What a magician this late spring weather is this year. I have been lured outside and much of my sadness banished with this strong dose of warmth and sunlight.

The winds are still raging as they have been all spring. Changes in our climate have brought a new experience of strong and consistent high winds that can gust at times up to 60 mph or more. And it has been a bitterly cold until this week. We had 5 nights during the last two weeks of April that covered the grass with a frosty white blanket and left primroses and bleeding hearts with limp, brown-edged leaves. Friday, May 1, was hopefully the last frost of the year.

In my closet I didn’t bother to switch out my winter wools, long sleeves, and heavy weight jeans. It was too cold to wear short sleeves or lighter capris . . . until this past Saturday. That morning found me scrambling to dig out a t-shirt and my Duluth Trading roll-up pants. I had only half-heartedly ventured outside before Saturday — briefly checking to see what was poking up in the garden, what was blooming, and picking the occasional weed before dashing back into the house to warm myself with hot coffee.

This weekend was the “switch”. It often seems that the weather gets stuck in a cold cycle in the spring and then like a flipped switch it gentles out into a soothing warmth. Plants that have been holding their green energy tightly burst from the ground and within days are budding and blooming. They surge upward, their leaves transforming ephemeral light into new leaves and blossoms.

Within me must remain a remnant of photosynthesis and a legacy from the plant world. Sunlight always works a transformation in my body. Energy that has been held tightly and unavailable through the cold and dark winter is released in me as I step into the sunlight. What in the cold of early spring seemed overwhelming and not worth an effort, suddenly beckons my interest and piques my energy. Weeding? Check. Fixing the tangled and damaged netting on the garden? Sure. Deadheading and tying up the daffodils? Can’t wait. Turning over the garden beds with a spade and hoe? I can do that this morning.

I work slowly (my aging body doesn’t move as fast as a younger me), but with energy that lasts through the whole day and into the next.

As late spring’s gentle warmth moves into summer’s sweaty heat and humidity, my energy will flag again. But until that time is here, I will marvel at the wonderful transformation created by sunlight in a body that remembers the legacy of green plants.

When?

I have not written for a long time. I have had little energy for writing. My heart has been ripped in two by multiple losses and griefs. I imagine probably yours has, too. When will this end? When will I figure out what this means? When will I stop crying?

I know there are no firm answers. As Rilke advises, “We must live the questions.” An RN who works in an ICU wrote to me about the hypervigilance that she had worked so hard to let of as a trauma/abuse survivor, but that has returned with tears as both bane and protection in her work with Covid 19 patients. The following is a reflection that I wrote back to her:

Tears are good things (as you know). They are cleansing, exhausting (pushing us toward sleep), and actually help rid our bodies of some toxic chemicals. Don’t stop them when they come.

You are experiencing what is normal and adaptive in an abnormal situation.  You are not crazy, bad, abnormal.  And I wish I could predict for you and others what the recovery will be from this PTSD . . . but I can’t.  Life and our experience of recovery is in the future and we are headed toward a future that (at this time) we can no longer envision.  It isn’t clear.  We can only live in the present with trust (also called faith) that we are not alone, that there is a Loving and Healing Presence that walks with us through life and death.  

We are part of a larger reality that is rebalancing itself in a shocking way (to us) in order to survive.  We as humans have been consuming and using up what we needed instead of caring for and protecting it for the future.  The earth has reached a tipping point where the balance has shifted drastically and what we are experiencing in this rebalancing is different and completely unfamiliar.  It won’t go back to what was.  What will come we don’t yet know.  But those who survive this (probably not those of us over 70) will adjust to and settle into that new reality.  Who will be left it is not ours to know.

What I think is important now is to be present with as much compassion as we can muster — compassion for others and also in large measure for ourselves.  It is compassion/empathy/service in these times that differentiates genuine humanity from the monstrous evildoers.   You are one of the compassionate ones.

I offer you a prayer from our prayerbook that I just read: This is another day, O Lord. I know not what it will bring forth, but make me ready, Lord, for whatever shall be. If I am to stand up, help me to stand bravely. If I am to sit still, help me to sit quietly. If I am to lie low, help me to do it patiently. If I am to do nothing, let me do it gallantly. Make these words more than words and give me the spirit of Jesus.

I will be repeating this prayer today . . . for you, for my sister in hospital, and for me.  

Choices

It is March 21, two days after the Spring Equinox in 2020. We are experiencing the ‘shelter in place’ response to the Covid-19 virus pandemic. And in the midst of dire predictions and the constant tally of numbers of infected and dead, I am grateful for signs of life in the world around me. Crocuses and daffodils and strawberry plants greening up . . . and the sun which is out today for the first time in several days.

Much of my ‘sheltering time’ has allowed me to sew placemats using strips I have sewn together from scraps. I delight in the colors that blend and contrast. These simple table top pieces help me to feel that I have done something productive and they will be appreciated by others. I have also been cooking and cleaning as is necessary with so much staying at home time.

This period of time has also fed my reflective nature and I have been thinking of what is an important consideration in this time of Covid-19 (but that you might consider macabre). Medical care may be in short supply if this virus overwhelms hospitals as it is expected to do (and is doing in some places). There are choices we need to make for ourselves concerning what kind of care we want if we contract the virus.

I am over 65 and have several conditions that put me at risk of getting Covid-19. It is not crazy to think about what would happen if I become seriously ill. Many elders with Covid-19 have needed a ventilator to breathe for them. I could well be one of many persons whose bodies would need the aid of ventilators, the care of trained nurses and doctors, and a bed in an ICU.

Now, believe me, I love life and enjoy so-o-o many things: family, gardening, creativity, volunteering. I hope to lead a long and relatively active life into my 80’s or longer. I work hard at staying healthy and keeping my body and mind resilient and strong through exercise and healthy diet. Nonetheless, I have not been invincible health-wise and although I will follow precautions against falling prey to this virus, I cannot control what may happen.

Long ago I had “the talk” with my daughter and my husband and my extended family about what I want them to know about my end of life wishes. I initiated “the talk” because I did not want them to have to guess what I would want or to take on guilt about having to make hard decisions if I was not consciously aware and unable to make them myself.

When the choice to be made is about who can receive life-saving care or have use of a ventilator — a person in their 70’s or 80’s or a younger person with a family or career ahead of them — there is only one choice of whom should receive that care. I want to live many more years — but not at the expense of a younger healthier person. This is not an idle daydream. Reports from Italy, the Middle East, and even Washington state and California talk of the wave of patients with the virus that has overwhelmed hospitals, staff, and available ventilators. Doctors are right now having to make choices of which patient to put on limited life-saving ventilators. And the wisest choice is to try to save those who have the possibility of a longer life. Palliative (pain-lessening) care should be offered to others — those who are elders or who may have conditions that are already limiting them.

While I hope it doesn’t come to that, my choice is made and I’m ok with that. I long ago made my peace with knowing I will not get out of this life alive.

Please think about the choices you want to make about the care you desire whenever you are facing death. And share your choices with your loved ones. If you want a gentle yet powerful resource to help you with this, check out Five Wishes https://fivewishes.org/shop/order/product/five-wishes.

Blessings,

Jane

Reflections on Corona’s Lessons

[This was written to a beloved friend after watching the National Cathedral Sunday service and the Episcopal Presiding Bishop’s sermon.]

“What struck me in the service were the words that I’ve sung a million times but that suddenly resonated:  “Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come . .  .”   Yes! So many challenges in my life — and yours and all of us.  We have survived many challenges that seemed overwhelming.  But we survived and even grew and lived life well.  The words continue, “. . . it’s grace that has brought me safe this far and grace will lead me home.”  Grace — simple love and trust that there is a life force in this world and in all of us that is activated by love — love received, love given, love shared, love gifted not earned. 

The Bishop quoted Mahalia Jackson singing “If I can help somebody/as I travel along/with a word or a song/. . . then my living shall not be in vain.”  I remember my grandmother singing that.   

Somehow after hearing those passages I feel more in touch with what I truly believe instead of the fear and anxiety that has been so present.  I truly believe that there is the potential for love and goodness in this world and that even when T… and others who are similarly unconscious and malicious seem to cover all that is good, they cannot kill goodness and love. 

And perhaps this virus is something that (while horrible and a killer) will make us realize that the only way through this is to recognize our interconnection with each other and how if one of us is infected we are all in danger and to have a chance at life we have to think of others as well as ourselves and isolate until this virus cannot glom onto anyone else.

You probably think I’ve lost my mind (well, maybe I have?).  I’m not trying to preach to you — not my nature.  What I’m doing is thinking on paper — I can write my thoughts better than I can verbalize or think them.  

Please know that we send our love.  You are precious to us and we hope that soon we can forego this isolation and see you.  And your garden.  And my irises are growing — hoping for blooms!”

Mr. B’s Safe Spaces

It is starting to rain heavily outside. The day is dreary and grey as it has been around the Lehigh Valley for far too many days this year. My cat, Mr. B., has just started cowering in the corner of the living room near the door — his “safe spot”.

He is fearful when it rains. I think he senses a drop in barometric pressure when a storm comes through. Yes, I know that cats’ hearing is better than humans so you may think he hears thunder before we do. It doesn’t even have to be a thunderstorm for him to respond this way.

I know rain is coming when he jumps down from his favorite chair and blanket and begins to s-l-o-w-l-y slink low to the ground towards the wall near the door . . . or sometimes under the table. He looks around warily, moving in slow motion. I calmly and quietly call his name and slowly move to pet him. But this gentle, affectionate lap cat will not look my way and focuses instead on moving to the safe space near the door or under the breakfast table. I pick him up in hopes of sitting him on my lap and giving him a calming pet or massage, but he squirms and wiggles free of my arms and settles himself into his chosen safe spot.

We came to be Mr. B’s “staff” (cats don’t have owners) a year ago in January 2019. He had been abandoned in November 2018 when his owners moved away. He spent 2 1/2 months outdoors in the deep winter of the Poconos. One evening when it was freezing rain, friends of ours heard scratching at the door to their deck. They found Mr. B. caked with ice and snow. Scruffy and hungry and scared, he reluctantly stepped inside the door. Our friends knew they could not keep him (they have 5 cats already) and tried all evening and the next day to find his owners. They gradually learned the story of his owners who had lived a mile away and of neighbors who left food outside but could not provide shelter.

My husband, Bill, and I had always had cats, but had just had our last elderly cat die. Bill could not face having another pet and loving and losing again . . . but when we found that Mr. B. would have to go to a shelter with unknown consequences, he agreed we would take Mr. B in. And so we have Mr. B. . . and we are definitely his staff.

It took only days to “tame” him back to being an indoor cat. He has never tried to get outside and seems to call to any neighborhood cat that comes in the yard — never hissing or spitting but giving a quiet call that, if I were to put words to it, would say, “Hey come on in. Let’s play!”

Mr. B would spend hours on my lap if I let him. He knows when it is feeding time but never begs for people food. He waits and calls to us at the bottom of the stairs to our bedroom when it gets to be 9 pm — a sign he wants to cuddle while we read in bed.

But his fear of storms is hard to see. I suppose I should be grateful that he has identified safe spaces to contain his fear. After all, as the rain moves out, he quickly resumes his usual demeanor.

It makes me wonder where are my safe spaces? I am usually gutsy and not easily intimidated, but these days I am feeling more anxiety and fear than I think I have felt in my life. I’m sure some of it is personally generated from my own recent and ongoing health challenges, and those of my family. But I think more of it is from the changes in our surrounding culture and the changing relationships with fellow citizens. Three years of this administration and I feel like nothing is predictable, and much is being unraveled that in the past was honored as foundational. Even the physical world — ferocity of storms and drought — is changing. And it is happening at such an unnerving pace .

I wonder where are my safe spaces? I want to be intentional and aware of where and with what and with whom I can feel safe in times when I need to retreat from this chaotic world and reclaim my roots. Aha . . . it is time to get out my meditation cushion and my journal and put away the computer for now and enter my safe space. And I’ll take Mr. B. with me . . .

Boxes

A couple of weeks ago I was sorting through one of the many boxes from our basement shelves. The object is to sort and discard what is no longer usable or needed so that we can live a bit lighter. Some of our boxes (blush!) have not been opened since we moved to Memphis, hurriedly packing in less than a month. That was 2005, almost 15 years ago.

Sorting through these things was my intention as soon as I retired. Life happened, though, and I am beginning that project now.

As I opened this first box, loose photos and a few written bits met my gaze. As I sat that afternoon and the next, I entered a mostly forgotten time in my life when I was a young, newly minted PhD and mother of a pre-teen. We (my husband, daughter, and me) lived in a house we were gutting and rebuilding for open space living. Pictures showed a progression from bare bricks and studs that we lived with for a time, then wallboard and spackling, naked windows morphing into curtained beauties, a kitchen that was not functional for cooking for 9 months (amazing what you can do with a microwave and the bathroom sink . . . ). I remembered the endless time line of renovations done almost entirely by my husband while he was employed fulltime.

Pictures emerged from the box of our daughter in middle school — awkward but sweet — and cards for Mothers Days and tales of summer camp (“Hi, Mom and Dad, I fell out of the top bunk last night. We’re going swimming today! I really like my friend, Ginny . . . “).

I had forgotten the lushness of my gardens there so long ago. Roses and irises and zinnia’s and many others. Our magnolia trees whose blooms so lush and pink we could see from our bed in the spring. Family events, familiar places, people who surrounded us with warmth and friendship.

So many memories . . . and emotions. I loved that time of my life. It was a golden time — at least in my memory. It is easy to forget the teen and mom struggles, the work conflicts, lack of sleep when working full time and trying to complete a PhD program. Nonetheless, looking at these images of time past I got weepy and for that week, I felt on the edge of tears — grieving the loss of that younger me and wishing I could re-live that time and perhaps live it differently with some different choices.

I sound like Emily in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. It is one of my favorite pieces of literature and very wasted on eighth graders who can have little lived experience of the preciousness of life. At least I didn’t appreciate it when it was assigned in middle school. But having read and reread it many times since — such precious wisdom it offers.

“Does anyone ever appreciate life while they live it?”

I am grateful that I saved those photos and that I opened that box to let so many memories tumble out. Today I will start the next box, not knowing what it will offer, yet willing — eager — to let the memories come — even if there are tears that are also there.