Aging, Resilience and Relevance

Resilience is the capacity to recover quickly from difficulties. 

Relevance is how appropriate something is to what's being done or said at a given time.

~Your Dictionary

This whimsical graphic speaks volumes about resilience and relevance, flip sides to the same coin. Rather than lamenting a rainy day, the woman stands beneath a dark cloud catching rainwater to nourish a potted plant. As the saying goes, When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. There's a silver lining in every disappointment, every obstacle, every dis-ease, if viewed through a contemplative lens. Nothing happens to us, everything happens for us and our spiritual growth and development. Aging is no different, and it offers profound opportunities for growth and relevance, or stagnation and irrelevance. As Nikolle Goldman writes in her article, 6 Secrets to Staying Relevant As You Age (see link below), one must seek knowledge, embrace social media, stay fit, go out, dress to impress, and challenge yourself. I am happy to report that my relevancy meter is set to high. 

Yesterday was Thanksgiving here in the United States and for the first time since becoming a mother thirty-five years ago, I found myself home alone. Two of my three children and their families were traveling, and the third one lives over 1000 miles away in the midwest. All three made choices that suited their families, and I loved that they did so. I mindfully turned down countless offers of fellowship in exchange for a quiet day at home with my beloved Carla, a good book, jigsaw puzzle, and chicken in the slow-cooker. Doing so gave me time to reflect on past holidays when my relevance depended on providing a family feast. My relevance has morphed and changed over the years, and my resilience to life's changes has kept up. 

Last weekend,  my oldest daughter and her husband closed on a new house. The previous owners had been beset by a string of set-backs and bad luck over the years, and seemed to live under a black cloud. My daughter accepted my offer to smudge the exterior and interior of their new digs to invite positive energy (see link below). So when moving day arrived, I showed up at the prescribed time and fulfilled my promise with bundles of aromatic sage, lavender and rosebuds. Once complete, I offered to stay and help, but my daughter, like me, has her own way of doing things, and I knew the greatest help I could provide was getting out of her way. Later that night, her father and his wife showed up and built a wonderful fire in their fireplace. On Sunday, her in-laws showed up with an offer to take the grandkids off-site for a few hours. Each of us aging parents showed up in ways that suited us, ways that spoke to our unique gifts and talents, in short, our relevance. 

As I prepare to embrace my 69th December birthday, I am able to relinquish the mother I once was in order to embrace the resilience that keeps me relevant. 

https://www.nextavenue.org/getting-older-matter/

http://bit.ly/3U38TYL

http://bit.ly/3U2Hd67

 

I'm no Cinderella

Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash

"The Cinderella complex was first described by Colette Dowling, who wrote a book on women's fear of independence – an unconscious desire to be taken care of by others." ~Wikipedia

In 2014, it occurred to me, in a stunning and humbling moment of clarity, that I was waiting for someone else to show up with the key to my life. As a single woman, I was seeking a partner with a big life. In my mind, big life was not necessarily synonymous with big money, big house, or big car. Big life meant that I wanted a partner whose life was filled with passion, purpose, meaning, and depth. I wanted to be transformed, and carried from my own so-so life, into someone else's purpose-driven life. What the universe provided me with, however, was an opportunity to experience, and utilize, my own sense of lack as a vehicle for transformation. In short, so long as I sought, outside of myself, that for which I desired, I would continue to attract that missing piece in others. And while I never thought of myself as a woman seeking rescue, that moment of clarity was a game changer. I discovered that in order to find people who led deeply passionate and purposeful lives, I had to become a vibrational match. 

The universe wasted no time delivering direction. Almost instantly, I was given an opportunity to attend a class at the Rhode Island School of Design, aptly called, "Become the Art Director of Your Own Life." From the first class, I began a process that continues to this day, of creating my own big, rich, passionate, purposeful, meaningful life. And lo and behold, now that I have taken responsibility for that creation, now that I am an energetic match to all that I seek, I no longer have to look outside of myself for the key. 

I was reminded of my fierce independence a few weeks ago after celebrating my solo art exhibit at a local gallery. I had worn my favorite pair of matte black heels to the event and at night's end, I switched into flip-flops for the drive home. Once home, I realized I had misplaced one of the shoes. The next morning when I searched my car, I found the missing heel under one of the back seats. Metaphorically speaking, the moment wasn’t lost on my sense of self or humor: there’s no Prince Charming waiting in the wings to rescue me, no knight in shining armor pledging to battle for me. 

Happily ever after is my responsibility. 

Autumn: A Time for Puzzles and Wanderlust

In last Friday's column, I'm No Thoreau...but I Choose to Live Deliberately, I wrote about the joy and creative energy I experience living in my unfinished garage, and my reluctance to return to my cottage once the summer hosting season ends. 

Autumn is a time of restoration, rejuvenation, contemplation, and taking stock. I took a reflective look back while writing my morning pages earlier, and discovered on paper, what my mind and body already knew: it's been one helluva year creatively for this aging Sagittarius! As I ticked off the creative chances I took—-from launching guided group meditations three times weekly on Heygo, to publishing my column here, to running for political office in my seaside community, to undertaking the financial pressure of two major home improvement projects, to hanging my first solo photography show at a nearby gallery, to embarking on a six-week short story course at my local university, to hosting monthly book clubs and meet-ups, to facilitating one twelve-week creative recovery program for members of my private Facebook group—-I realized how hard I'd been pushing. Like Mother Nature, who generously birthed her splendor all year, it's time for me to let go, go within, and hunker down. 

Mentally, I have given myself permission to move back into the cottage and to have fun doing things I don't normally have time for. Today I bought a 750-piece jigsaw puzzle, CLOSET CATS. I love making puzzles and have all the frills---a non-slip felt mat, low-wattage illumination that adjusts the spread of light, and a fold-and-go table is on my Christmas gift list. I like knowing that this activity improves brain function and short-term memory.

That mint-green Volkswagen bus lain diagonally across the puzzle box is intentional. In January/February 2023, I would love to rent a camper van and leave town for a month. My plan is to head down to Hunting Island in South Carolina (I camped there in 2014), revisit Old Car City USA (a car junkyard on over 34 acres) and my buddy, Dean Lewis, in White, Georgia, and ultimately get to Pensacola, to hang out with my daughter, Lindsey, her husband, Cooper and my grandpup, Mochi. Cooper is part of the America's Cup sailing team and they are based in Florida this winter. 

Tell me about your plans for restoration this autumn. How will you honor the changing season? How will you tap into your inner balance? 

For more on autumn and its symbolism, check out: https://www.bustle.com/life/fall-autumn-season-meaning-symbolism

For more information about my weekly guided group meditations, visit: https://www.heygo.com/the-footloose-muse

For information on Hunting Island, South Carolina, check out: https://southcarolinaparks.com/hunting-islandhttps://southcarolinaparks.com/hunting-island

 To learn more about Old Car City USA, visit: https://www.oldcarcityusa.com/

I'm no Thoreau...but I choose to live deliberately

My Garage 

From Memorial Day to Labor Day weekends here in southern Rhode Island, I manage a robust hosting season on Airbnb. I am one of those old-fashioned hosts who still believe in the platform's original mission to share our rooms, homes, communities, and economies with like-minded travelers from all over the world. In order to be on hand to welcome, recommend and be of service to my guests, I move myself and my beloved Carla from our four-room cottage into my 20' x 20' unfinished garage across the lawn (think shabby chic). My garage boasts no kitchen, no running water; I do, however, have an air fryer, microwave, mini refrigerator, outside shower, and a gym membership.

My life in the garage is simple, uncomplicated, and uniquely me. I choose to remain out there long after my last summer guest has returned home. Why, you ask? The answer hit me while I made the six-step journey from the corner where my iMac is located, over to the twin bed where I sleep like a baby. Henry David Thoreau came to mind, along with his 10' x 15' one-room cabin on Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts and the two years he lived there with only a desk, three chairs, a fireplace and a bed. I'm no Thoreau, but I share his desire to live deliberately, with nothing but the essentials on hand. I've come to understand that my fascination, my love affair with this simple life is rooted in the quiet inspiration and divine mind that I partner with. With no encumbrances, no distractions, I am free to create to my heart's content.

In the fall of 1996, I was a Fellow in Residence at The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts in Sweet Briar, Virginia. I was granted a one-room studio with a desk, a chair and a bed. I spent two glorious weeks finishing my short story collection: Underbelly. Twenty years later, in the fall of 2016, after a two-month whirlwind cross-country book tour to promote Linger Longer: Lessons from a Contemplative Life, I spent a month in a three-room cabin on a horse farm in rural Elgin, Arizona, a few miles from the Mexican border. It's there I discovered that less is more: less baggage, less stress, less attachment, more freedom, more connection, more memories. When I returned to Rhode Island that year, I sold my 2000-square-foot designer condo in downtown East Greenwich and embarked on a minimalistic lifestyle, the same one I enjoy today.

As November dawns here in the northeastern United States, I will have to leave my one-room sanctuary and move back into my cottage, and while geographically not much will change, spiritually my center will shift as I lay down new tracks for self-discovery and creative expression.

Tell me where, when, and how you connect with divine mind? 

For more information on Thoreau, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and/or Sweet Caroline's Vintage Cottage, check out: 

https://bit.ly/3WdLXIz

https://www.vcca.com/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8FUPrd5ra0

An Open Letter to a Woman Who Fawns

 

Photo by Alice Alinari on Unsplash

Fawn: to behave abjectly before a superior, to seek favor by servile flattery 

or exaggerated attention, to ingratiate oneself by a menial 

or subservient attitude. ~Merriam-Webster dictionary

You impressed me. The way you carried yourself---erect, poised, sure-footed in sensible shoes on the cracked city sidewalk. Your patterned vintage scarf paired nicely with your tweed jacket and upswept hair. I sensed a breezy que sera attitude as you and your partner window-shopped on an overcast October day. Then you did something that destroyed that impression. And in that moment, I was seized with a repulsion that took time to unpack.

I do not recall making eye contact with you as I briefly held open the antique oak door to the cafe for one of you to assume. I went left to make my way to a window seat overlooking the gardens while you went to take your place in line. By the time I got behind you, your man was ordering for you while you held back, just off to his right side, and slowly, deliberately stroked his back. 

Your fawning spoke volumes, it was code for, “He’s mine.” That circle you traced on his back? It was symbolic of the wall, the protection, you intended to draw around your relationship. Circling the wagons, taking defensive action, preparing for an attack, your fear was palpable. Fear of losing something you had, fear of not getting something you wanted. Energetically, you cast me an unmistakable air of one-upmanship. 

“Fawn types seek safety by merging with the wishes, needs and demands of others. They act as if they unconsciously believe that the price of admission to any relationship is the forfeiture of all their needs, rights, preferences and boundaries.” ~Pete Walker

[As an aside, and before you jump all over me, readers, for not having a romantic bone in my body, let me say, this was not about romance or love. Love is expansive, it’s welcoming, it’s inclusive. Fear, its opposite, contracts. It keeps people at arm's length. This one-way fawning, one-sided touching, was a shot across the bow, fired to warn me and other women, to back off, to keep our distance, to move along.]

Without reciprocity, your man stood stock-still, letting you fawn, more intent on eying the barista beyond the counter. Tell me, does he enjoy, encourage, require you to fawn? Does he expect it? Does he get off on your public caress? Does he need to be revered in public, and if so, what does he demand in private? 

Who imprinted on you? Who taught you to fear, mistrust, suspect other women? Where did you learn to sacrifice self for love? Who told you that fawning would prevent your man from straying? 

"No matter how well you think you carry yourself, if you do not value yourself it will show. And you'll be treated by what people perceive you as. Know who you are and be confident in it. Know your worth and act on it." ~Author unknown

Like an animal marking territory, territory that I, thirty years your senior, had no intention of violating, you staked your claim. Fear not, child; I have no interest in, no desire to touch, hold, fawn, fuck your man. I'd never interrupt the symbiotic underpinnings of your coupling. 

Sadly, you underestimated, undervalued me, my womanhood, our sisterhood, and for that I pity you. 

For more information on the psychology of fawning, check out: https://bit.ly/3NbTOSY

Tell me, mom. What do you remember?

 

Vintage photo on Pinterest

“Remembering is mental time travel.” ~Endel Tulving

Stream of consciousness, longhand writing triggers memories, excavating them layer by layer, and if you resist the urges to interrupt the flow, to worry about grammar and syntax, if you just WRITE, 

some amazing insights and recollections will emerge. One thing will always lead to another.

The following excerpt is an edited version of a prompt I received this week during 

the first day of a six-week creative writing workshop, and as such is richly experimental in nature.

Prompt: "I remember..."

I remember a time, a table, a table in the round, and round the circle the wooden chairs went. Chairs with seats mere inches off the floor, chairs that held the body and bones and brains of a new generation. Chairs that scraped up against the linoleum floors of my elementary school. School days I faced the door, a door leading out to a hallway, a hallway leading to the unforgiving playground where my limbs never got the climbing, the running, the hopscotching quite right.

My mom remembered, and I remember my mom, my mom who told me once, once or more, about that classroom, a classroom whose vision is clouded by time, blurry like a cataract. But mom, my mom remembered, she remembered to tell me, and how I wish today, and I'll wish forevermore, that I'd asked, queried, plumbed the depths of 92 years of memories, hers somehow more intact than mine. I remember, my mom remembered to tell me, "You were part of a group, a group of kids who were good writers. Your teacher singled you out." How many kids, who knows now, tapped to write creatively, and at what age? Seven, eight, nine, no, not nine, by nine, I would have been too scared, too scarred by all the dizzyingly dysfunctional drama at home. Home life with a screaming father, drunk on beer and melancholy, so I must have been six, or seven, or eight, no, not 8, not 6 either. I'll bet 7. I'll bet 7 years old for sure. 

Second grade, at that school where I went, Ellen P.. Hubbell, the one I went to when we moved to Fifth Street in Bristol, after we got kicked out of the apartment on Union Street. In Bristol where there was a whole block of streets named after numbers--First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth. I wish I could call mom, my mom, and say, "Hey, mom, remember, do you remember Fifth Street? Remember all the streets that had numbers in their name? What street number were we? I remember Gloria who lived on the other side of the duplex. Remember her, mom? Remember how she turned yellow from the cancer drugs they dripped into her? I remember, so how old were we, mom, how old was I, when we moved to Fifth Street? I remember too, mom, going to the other school, the one I walked to with older kids. I know I was older, mom, because I had my first crush on a boy. I still remember the delicate blonde-haired boy; I remember his name: Jay Prikocki, and I still remember his phone number, the one I used to dial and hang up: 203-583-7915. That's crazy, mom. Over sixty years later, I still remember a boy's phone number. We used to walk, leave that school and walk to a lunch counter, to eat hotdogs, I must have been a pre-teen, or in my early teens. And then high school, mom, walking in the opposite direction still from Fifth Street to Bristol Eastern, so did we live on Fifth Street for ten years, mom? 

Tell me, mom, what do you remember? 

Can We Leave Now? Overcoming Generational Alcoholism.

"Yes, your family history has some sad chapters. But your history doesn't have to be your future. The generational garbage can stop here and now." ~Max Lucado

Walking out of my favorite bookstore on Saturday afternoon, I saw a little girl, maybe 7 years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book in her lap, while her mother stood nearby perusing the stacks. As I passed, I overheard the girl ask if they'd be leaving soon, and I was taken back to my own childhood, and all the times that I’d asked the same question. In my case, I was asking my father if he, my brother and I could leave, but we weren't in a bookstore. We were in a noisy bar room, and my brother and I spent a whole lot of time there. My mother worked nights to help make ends meet in the late 1950s. My father always answered my query with, "In a little bit. Charlie just bought me a drink." If it wasn't Charlie, it was George or Hank. "Here, go play the jukebox," and he'd toss us a quarter. My brother and I would swirl around on the sticky dance floor for a few songs before tugging at his shirt again. 

My father only drank beer, but don't let anyone ever tell you beer drinkers can’t become alcoholics. And even though I swore I'd never become my father, once I got to college, I became a daily drinker with no regard for anything other than my obsession for that next drink. And by the time I became a mother at thirty-three, my preoccupation with alcohol had blossomed into full-blown alcoholism. I was a functional alcoholic with a high tolerance for booze, so unless you were a trained professional, I hid it pretty well. But make no mistake, I became my father the first time I took my 18-month-old daughter into a bar for the first time, sat her up in a high chair, fed her a meatball, and deluded myself into thinking this wasn't a barroom because they served food.

Fast forward. Blessedly, my three grown children have had a sober mother/grandmother for over 14 years now. Twelve-step work saved my life and slowed (hopefully, halted) the curse of generational alcoholism.

Today, that 18-month-old daughter I’d dragged into barrooms is a beautiful mother of three children of her own. I love our Thursday mornings when she and I routinely take her brood to the library. 

Leave a comment

Share The Footloose Muse

Subscribe now