Angels Among Us

(Or Another Adventure of an Earthling)

In my last post, I wrote about that all change is for the better, it’s all good, and what we go through as we go through change. Lest you think this must be a long process, let me assure you that you can go through the entire 6 stage cycle in a few minutes, especially if you call on your Angels for help! Let me tell you about my day yesterday and see if you agree.

Walking has been my exercise of choice during this pandemic. It’s good for mental as well as physical health. Our route changes daily to be more scenic, and last Saturday I upped my game to actually go for a hike. That meant trees instead of asphalt, some hills up and down instead of flat neighborhood sidewalks, and trees instead of open skies overhead. It also meant 3 miles instead of 1 or 2. It was all good, except that Bo, my almost-14 years old Beagle, who has a history sometimes of overdoing it and getting sore, to the point of limping and stopping climbing steps or jumping on the couch. Such was the case by Sunday afternoon, after another morning neighborhood walk of about 1-1/2 miles. By Monday morning (yesterday) I decided to give him a break; we would walk later in the day after I ran some errands, and we’d keep it limited. Little did I know he would get the entire day to rest up.

On Sunday I brought home Saffianna, my camper, to give her a long overdue bath. Who knows when we will be able to make our next trip but she still had dirt and smashed bugs on her from last fall. In less than a half hour, I had gone to the storage lot where she stays in our subdivision, hitched her up, and had her parked in my driveway. I use a wash-and-wax combo cleaner, and Saffi looked so good when I got done, I decided to give the truck a quick wash and shine her up, too. I thought about doing the car, but ran out of energy in the hot sun. As it happened, early on in the camper washing, I bent over to pick up the scrub brush off of the ground, and my cell phone slipped out of my pocket and hit the concrete. Now, my phone is dressed in a purple Otter protective case, and she did not shatter or even crack or get a ding. But she did get a headache apparently, and after a few flashes and shudders, she was done for. I could not revive her, and she is a model that does not have a removable battery. I tried everything, including asking the neighbor for help. So I was incommunicado for the rest of the day. I figured I would go on Monday and see about having her fixed or get a new one. I was too tired to try and put Saffianna back in her space at the lot, so I left her in the driveway overnight, and in fact, the dogs and I slept out there Sunday night, our first night of the camping season. Kevin used to say that sleeping in the driveway was akin to “kissing your sister,” and he refused to do it, but the dogs and I usually did the first night of every camping season. So we Kissed Our Sister Sunday.

In the morning we actually slept in until almost 8:30. Must have been that fresh air! I started some online research into new phones, and was shocked that the decent ones cost upwards of $500 and some are over $1000. So I hunted down Kevin’s old phone and put it on the charger, figuring that at least I could have my number transferred to his phone and I could use that until I could decide about a new one. Maybe I could find one cheaper on E-Bay or even at Wal-Mart rather than Verizon. It was about 11:30 when I was I was ready to go get the camper hitched up and returned to the lot.

I noticed that the truck seemed to hesitate a bit when I put it in gear to back up, but maybe I imagined it. Then when I put it in Drive, it hesitated again. It was like I was still in Neutral. But then it was fine, so we took off. The woman who lives on the corner of the roadway that goes to the storage lot, Till is her name, was out in her yard, and I stopped to talk with her a bit on my way in. Then I went on my way to the lot. The road is narrow but a pretty little lane, gravel and dirt, bending to the right past a tree on the edge and then through more trees, about a quarter mile or even less to a locked gate on a 12′ tall chain link fence that encloses the lot, which is surrounded by more trees. Lots of them. It’s one way in, and the same way out. I wish I had a picture to show you, but remember, I had no phone.

I pulled up to the gate, put the truck in Park, and jumped out to unlock and open the gates. I got back in, put the truck in Drive, and backed up. Wait! What?? WHOA!! I looked at the shifter to make sure I had put it in Drive, and it was. I put it in Park, and then back in Drive to make sure. We backed up a little more. No! This was not good. In case you don’t drive a vehicle, Drive is supposed to be forward. Same thing happened with 2d gear. There was no way I wanted to drive backwards out of that lane, around a curve, between trees. Backing up a trailer in a straight line when you have to is hard enough. And I had no reason to go backward. So I used the tried-and-true method that works on computers: I turned off the truck to reset it. Then I tried to restart it. But I guess the truck knew it was in Reverse instead of Park and would not start up. So there I sat. Thinking, focusing, replaying it in my mind. Trying not to cry…because crying is what I do when I am lost, helpless, alone, frustrated, scared, or just feel like it.

I had no phone to call anyone for help, and in these days of Contact lists on our phones, I don’t even know anyone’s phone number. Like, not anyone. And the only mechanics I know anyway are my brother in law and nephew in Minnesota, so that wasn’t going to help. Even if Kevin was alive, he wouldn’t have known what to do. I asked the angel him anyway to help me out of this jam.

I usually just grab my driver’s license to dash over to the RV Lot, but this time, intending to go shopping afterward, I had my purse and wallet with me. Which means I had my AAA card. And not just any old AAA plan, I pay the premium for AAA Plus RV. That’s what I would do! If I had a phone. So I walked back to Till’s house to see if she would let me borrow hers. A quick call and I was assured someone would be here in about 45 minutes. Great! I had a plan. Till offered to make me a salad and have lunch with her since it was now 1:00. We were barely washing out hands when a vehicle drove by toward the RV Lot. Could it be AAA already?? I hustled down the lane. Alas, it was Rob, another tenant of the Lot looking to access his trailer. Luckily, he had work to do on it first, so he wasn’t in a hurry to get in. Which he couldn’t do, since my disabled truck and trailer were blocking the only way in. I explained my situation, and he said not to worry. I was headed back toward Till’s house when she met me on the way. AAA had called back and someone was already on their way. Well, of course! I had Angel Kevin on duty!

It wasn’t but a few more minutes and a tow truck pulls up. I explain things to the driver, but he looks at me and asks how he is supposed to tow my truck if he can’t get to it. I told him I didn’t know, that he was my AAA “roadside assistance” solution and he should tell me the plan. I told him I had explained the situation when I called in. He asked me to start the truck, and when I told him I couldn’t, he got in himself and tried it. It still did not start, of course. He played with the shifter a bit and then got on the ground near the truck (but not under, which is significant) and took a quick look, said I probably had a linkage that broke, and to call back AAA and tell them I needed a mechanic, not a tow truck driver. I took a deep breath as he drove away. Breathe in for the count of four, hold it for the count of eight, breathe out to the count of seven. Repeat. And then back to Till’s house to use her phone again. I whispered to Kevin that I needed a Plan B, pronto.

I explained to AAA what the tow truck driver said, that I needed a mechanic. The woman told me they don’t do roadside work. I said I have the Plus package, and my card says Roadside Assistance right on it. She says that means they can bring gas to me, or jump my battery, or give me a tow, but that’s it. Breathe in to the count of four, hold it for the count of eight, breathe out to the count of seven. No thanks. But since I don’t have a phone of my own, could she please look up a number for me? She gave me the name of a possible mobile repair service, and as a backup, I asked her to give me the number for the automotive service place I take my motorcycle and the truck for annual state inspections. I have not had to have service on any of my vehicles since Kevin has died; he always made those arrangements when needed. I decided to try “my” place first. Luckily; the mobile repair place is no longer mobile anyway.

Once again, I explained the situation, but first I had to compose myself. I was feeling disstressed, pressure in my chest, an increased heart rate. I told myself to observe” what was going on, inside me but the overall matter of my situation. Just be factual. Describe what happened, what you tried. Observe, and report. That helped me calm down a little. They said this couldn’t be fixed roadside, if this really was the problem, and the man I was speaking to, Brock, offered to call around for me to some of his “sources,” and see if he could come up with a solution. My usual reply to an offer like that would be, “I don’t want to put you out,” meaning it seems like quite an imposition to ask him to do that for me. I’m not very good at accepting help. At least I didn’t use to be. But I have learned that when people offer to help, they want to help, so there is no harm in letting them help. I accepted this angel’s offer. By now, Till has told me to keep the phone as long as I need it , gave me the PIN# in case it locked up, and even brought me a portable charging unit in case it got low on battery. Another angel. Deep breaths.

My next call was to the RV Lot Captain to let him know in case he got calls that it was me blocking the lot. I got his number from Brock, who graciously looked it up for me. Luckily, Raymond was on his way to the dentist but wasn’t there yet so he could talk to me. He offered to park my camper in its spot if we could figure out how to get the truck out of the way. Our call was interrupted by Brock calling back to say that he had a tow truck on the way, and the driver, Aaron, would likely be able to help me out, that he had been told the situation. As I waited for Aaron, Christine, Raymond’s wife, now showed up with a bottle of water for me and to offer some moral support. Rob, though, had already brought me one. What great people (angels!) in my neighborhood!

It’s now a bit after 2:00, and Aaron shows up. Rob has left to go get a lug nut for his spare tire but said he’d be back in less than an hour, and if I need him to move my camper once the truck was dealt with, he, too, could park it for me. Aaron, though, is another angel. He checks out the shifter, says my linkage is shot, and crawls under the truck. Then he tells me to start the truck but to keep my foot on the brake, since he wants to go home that night. The truck starts right up. He had manually put it in Park, and now puts it in Drive. Telling me to still keep my foot on the brake, he crawls out from under the truck and directs me to drive forward to wherever I usually go and to position the camper for backing up. Voila! The truck goes forward! I get to my back-up spot, Aaron crawls back under the truck and maneuvers the gear into Reverse. Now, while I am holding the brake down and have the emergency brake on, Aaron climbs over me into the driver’s seat and I slide out. My record for backing Saffi up into her assigned spot between two other units is 38 tries, going forward and backward, and that is a LOT of crawling under the truck for Aaron, so he is going to back the camper up for me. Which he does in one try. I unhitch the camper, put down the tongue, disconnect the battery, and get back in the truck. Aaron now crawls under the truck one last time, puts the truck in Drive again, and tells me I can drive forward. In fact, I am going to drive it straight to American Pride Automotive, and he will follow me. First, though, I have to stop at Till’s to return her phone. Aaron will shut and lock the gate so I don’t have to get into Park and Drive again.

Till hears me coming and comes to greet me at the lane. I tell her I am off to American Pride Automotive down the road, and she offers to follow me and bring me back home. I am almost in tears again at everyone’s generosity. I accept, and our little parade takes off. When I get to American Pride and walk into the office (yes, I have my mask on), Brock – whom I have never met – welcomes me with “Glad you made it!” I told him I’d give him a hug if I could, and he says he’ll take a rain check. Aaron says he will just add his bill to the American Pride one once they fix the truck. Everyone is so understanding that I want to cry again. I thank them, and get into Till’s car to return home.

The day is not over. Luckily (notice how lucky I am?!? All those angels are hard at work, but we’re not done yet), I have another vehicle (actually two if you count the motorcycle). I go into the house, let the dogs out and round them up again, and grab Kevin’s old phone that has charged up sufficiently by now that it turns on. I head out again, this time to Verizon. My old phone is not salvageable, and Kev’s old phone turns out to be an AT&T phone, not serviceable on Verizon’s network. Chris patiently shows me a few options, and $400 later, not including the protective screen sheet and case or the activation fee and cost to transfer my Contact list, I am on my way with a new phone. I am exhausted and not in the mood to do battle with any more the germs at a grocery store. Anything I need will wait another day.

I quickly call my friend Dee to let her know I am back on the grid again with a new phone. It is about 5:00 now and I tell her I think I am going to get curbside take-out Mexican and put my feet up. I then shoot off a text to my kids and my siblings to let them know I have a phone again, having yesterday Facebooked them to let them know I couldn’t get calls. My phone rang in my hand, a startling sound, my first call on the new phone (with an odd ring tone I will have to change). It is another angel in the form of my friend and neighbor Sandy.

Sandy is a gem. We share an interest in writing, play Bunco in the same group, go to lunch monthly with other women in the neighborhood. She is the one I call if I am out of an ingredient and in the middle of baking something. When I need to borrow a blender, she adds in margarita glasses. When I have fondue on game night, she brings extra forks to make sure there are enough. Her son Brandon helps me out with the dogs when I want to take off for a day, and her grandson Gentry loves to love on my dogs when he visits her. So I happily answer Sandy’s call. Here is the entire conversation:

Sandy: Have you eaten supper yet?

Me: Nope.

Sandy: Are you hungry?

Me: Yes.

Sandy: Are you home?

Me: Yes.

Sandy: Good. I am on my way. Be there in 5. I have something for me and you’re going to like it.

Five minutes later, Sandy pulls into my driveway. I tell her what an angel she is, and she asks if I’ve had a bad day. I think to myself You have no idea, but actually, it wasn’t all that bad; it was just exhausting. She said, “I wish I could give you a hug instead of you having to hug a tree. Here.” And she hands me a red gift bag, in which is a pint of homemade chicken salad Brandon has made, with craisins and pecans, and another bowl that contains chicken wings in Brandon’s special homemade lightly spicy barbeque sauce. Yummy!

Sandy with Brandon’s leftovers for me

I wondered how in the world Dee could have gotten word to Sandy so fast for her to bring this, but of course, it wasn’t Dee at all. I think Kevin was still on the job. Sandy and I visited for a few minutes, and she left. I enjoyed the tasty bounty. That boy can cook, I tell you.

I put on Netflix and the cuddled with the dogs for a while. We were all in bed by around 9:00, thankful that after all the day’s drama, no one got hurt, not even by harsh words or sarcastic retorts, which I am too good at sometimes. I was grateful for everyone who crossed my path that day, for the angels that helped me through all 6 stages of the change cycle in record speed. Let’s review, shall we?

Stage 1, Loss. I lost my ability to drive my truck and my independence without my phone. I felt helpless and did not know what to do. Stage 2, Doubt. I resented AAA lack of roadside service, although that driver did identify that my shifter was my problem. I was skeptical that this would be resolved easily or quickly or cheaply, or that I could get the right help without being in the way (literally) for others. Stage 3: Discomfort. I surely felt like I was the one who was stuck in neutral, anxious about what this would mean in terms of ability to use (and trust) the truck mechanically. Stage 4: Discovery. I anticipated the help from the second tow truck driver, and looked forward to a resolution. I had come up with a plan, and the plan was working. Stage 5: Understanding. Aaron confirmed the shifter linkage was broken, and I gained confidence as he manually put the truck into gear. I was able to drive forward and trusted the truck would get me to the repair shop. I was ready to take on the cell phone replacement task. Stage 6: Integration. I am satisfied that the truck is where it needs to be, and grateful that having this happen here at home saved me from being somewhere along I-40 on my way to see my kids or in a remote campground. And I have a new working cell phone. I was generous with my appreciation for all the angels who showed up to help. And now I am ready for the next “change,” which is likely to be the hit to my checkbook when I get the bill, but it’s only money.

An interesting bit of background. Last fall our our Thelma & Louise trip, both Dee and I had a little trouble with the shifter. We thought it was because of where I had placed the trash sack, such that we couldn’t really see if we were in Drive or not if the truck didn’t engage in gear. That has been an ongoing thing I didn’t pay enough attention to. Also, my cell phone had been slowly fading away anyway. It was needing to be charged up sometimes twice a day, even when it had a full charge in the morning. Response time was also slow when trying to access messages. More warning signs that I ignored.

But, in fact, it’s all good! I got my stimulus check recently, so I will have the means to pay this piper. I was able to accept the generosity of my friends and even to strengthen my connection to them and to my community. An expression I learned recently is amor fati. It’s a Latin phrase that means a love of fate. It’s a mindset that you take on for making the best out of anything that happens. It’s my new favorite motto, and it has proven to be a concept that I find is very useful. It’s not just a stoicism, it’s a productive point of view. I have one tattoo, and I’ve said I’d never get a second one. But I’m thinking now… maybe ….

It would go with the one I already have, which is based on Gibran’s philosophy of life going forward, which you can read about in a previous post.

All in all, I’d say yesterday turned out to be a spectacular day. I got to meet so many angels and to really experience me being me, and a better version of me. I think I handled it well, all things considered.

All Change is for the Better


, , ,

You’ll see if you look at my banner on this site: Nothing we do can change the past, but everything we do changes the future. Tru dat! We are definitely in the midst of a change cycle with this pandemic. I keep hearing that people are anxious to return to “normal,” and all I can think is that I don’t want to go back. As hard as it is, we can only go forward.

The Change Cycle

The Change Cycle is a real thing. It is a 6-stage model for responding to changes that go on all the time. For each stage, the model identifies probable feelings, thoughts, and behaviors. It looks like this.

I could spend all day explaining it to you, but I really want to do is give you a quickie example of how I am experiencing the current Covid-19 pandemic in relation to this model. In future posts, I will relate how specific activities (such as The Art of Napping and watching movies with Closed Captions) or my daily meal times have been affected (beer bread, anyone?). For now, it is my aim that if you are struggling with all the changes in your life due to this virus, you will find some hope in support of the idea that there can be (and definitely is) a benefit to us in these trying times. And that there is a way forward.

As you can see, the cycle starts with the event of the loss (our normal routines, a new virus), that leads us into doubt (about the sudden impact, the resistance to the change), which shows up as discomfort (too much to deal with, too many unknowns), until we start discovering it’s not forever (we’re going to reopen the restaurants and hair salons), which brings about a new level of understanding and acceptance of the situation (we seek opportunities and get busy again), so that we can integrate the changes and create a new normal (work and leisure reprioritized).

The kind of change isn’t important. Sure, some changes hurt more than others. Some changes require us to spend more time in some stages than others. Even changes that we court and wish for still end up having up move through these stages but likely on a different time table or with differing levels of anxiety, for example. The arrival of a baby and a loss of a job are completely different changes, but both are changes nonetheless.

No change is unimportant. But all change ends up being for good. It can be incredibly difficult and mystifying to figure out how some changes are beneficial; many times we wish we could go back in time and have a Do Over. Science, psychology, and experience all show, though, that ultimately, we grow or evolve in our thinking and our being when we go through a change of any kind. That’s a point of view that takes some getting used to; it really is a mindset.

That can be a big pill to swallow, I know. I have had some painful things happen in my life, things I’d rather forget or pretend never happened. This isn’t going to be a litany of the uphill climb I’ve had – I know I’m not the only one who has ever gone through some of what I’ve gone through. But ultimately – every single time – I have changed. I respond to the same or similar new things differently, I think differently, I act differently. Because I learned a different way to a better outcome. I can’t un-know something, or as a friend of mine likes to say, I can’t unring that bell. So I am who I am now because of all those changes. And so are you changed because of what has happened in your life.

Even a change like death. As you know, my husband died a bit over 5 years ago. Can I say it was “all good?” That seems harsh, insensitive, unloving. And I surely did grieve, get angry, get depressed, and want by old dreams back. Then. But with death, there is no going back. It’s not just about looking for a silver lining. Dealing with change is about actively processing what we are going through, and accepting that forward movement is preferable to getting stuck and staying down for the count. It doesn’t mean we don’t feel bad, or that we don’t hate what has happened, or that we are glad something happened. It means we have moved on.

Stage 1, Loss

With the pandemic, I admit I got scared. I cried and felt fearful. I live alone, and I worried that if I got sick, no one would know; those who might help (kids, sibs) were too far away; what would happen to my dogs; I don’t have a bedroom on my first floor and how can I climb stairs if I have trouble breathing? Yeah, I felt real fear, and it had a tight grip. This was Stage 1, Loss. This was the thing that started it all. I was behind the Eight Ball and not liking it at all.

Stage 2, Doubt

I started to resent those who were supposed to give us hope, calm us down, provide us with information and support. Leadership failed me. I became skeptical of everything I heard. I felt angry. I doubted there was a light at the end of the tunnel, so I decided to stay the hell away from the tunnel at all. I rejected the ideas of the so-called experts. Classic Stage 2, doubting everything. Asking WHY????

Stage 3, Discomfort

But that was not sustainable for me. I am normally an optimistic person, and my professional experience told me that there was more to the story than we were being told, more options than we were being given. I was now at Stage 3, full of questions, spending a lot of time doing nothing, going in circles, looking for an easy way out. I was uncomfortable with the way things were and could not accept the status quo. I was anxious but saw no clear way out. If that is not your nature, you still can be confused, anxious, and unable to get much done.

Danger Zone!

It is at this point I could have resigned myself to being a couch potato, waiting for a savior to make it all go away, letting negativity take over and turning possibilities into poisons. That is the danger zone. I am aware that engaging in all the drama sucks energy right out, so I pushed through to get away from it. I stopped watching the news several times a day and started watching romantic happy-ending Hallmark movies. I cut down my Facebook feed to weed out the divisive posts, and I took to weeding my garden instead. My diet of chewy licorice, jelly beans, and chocolate became crunchy green salad, turkey for several days on end, and experimental biscotti and beer bread. Of course, you do you.

Stage 4, Discovery

I wanted Stage 4, that of discovery. I was sick and tired of being sick (disgusted) and tired (same old-same old). I got resourceful, sewing my own masks, moving around some plants in the yard, and attending an e-treat (online retreat) based on a book When Everything Changes, Change Everything. I caught myself looking forward to ways I could outsmart the system, or at least create a healthier life on my own so I wouldn’t have to rely on the health care system and politicians to save me. I wasn’t going to wait for what I thought I “deserved,” I was going after what I wanted.

Stage 5, Understanding

With the generous help of Verizon and their free gigs of data for my cell phone, I have initiated more contact with long-distance friends and family. More than just talking, now I can video-chat and see them. It’s not the same as being at same table, but it is kinda cool to do our own Brady Bunch reunion. I got more active, as in walking the dogs twice a day instead of once, and for twice the distance each time. I haven’t lost any weight (see licorice comment above), but I do think my belly jiggle has toned down. I gained confidence that I was over the hump of heavy fear, evidenced by my successes at the oven and in the garden, as Spring finally arrived. Being productive made me recognize my prior unproductivity, and I was able to understand that no one really knew how to deal with this pandemic and they were probably doing the best they could, given the many obstacles in their way. I could understand that while some jobs or industries were declared essential or non-essential, we as individuals are all essential to humanity. An unemployed neighbor is still essential to my daily spirit, waving as I walk by. A closed business is essential to Mother Earth by reducing the number of people on the road, resulting in an essential cleansing of the air. Yes, Stage 5 is where I am. I am understanding the situation and responding with a more holistic approach.

Stage 6, Integration

The integration of all this evolution in my feelings, thoughts, and actions is yet to come. That’s Stage 6. With some businesses starting to re-open and people going back to work outside of their homes, things will change slightly. I’ve been enjoying the peace and quiet of my neighborhood streets and seeing my neighbors throughout the day. People will be on a time clock or trying to fit in more errands in a day, so they’ll be picking up the pace. I will do my best to support that, because the economic impact on my retirement accounts has pinched me some, too, and because I know some people are needing the social stimulation and ability to contribute as much as to bring in a paycheck. That doesn’t mean that I have to hustle, or fill my schedule, or let the weeds take over my yard. I know I have been able to push my own reset button, to reprioritize how I spend my time, and to more fully appreciate my slice of heaven on Earth. If I can continue that lifestyle, I will have achieved integration. The cycle is complete.

If I declare that these are all good things, for me, then I have to say that the pandemic did for me what no amount of reading prophets and gurus and experts has been able to do. All that theory I have been consuming has finally been applied in real time by me, in my world. I don’t want to go back to whatever I thought was normal a month ago. I want to stay here in New Normal, at least for a while, until the next change event comes along and propels me into another cycle. Until then, I am making plans for a slower re-entry to the local life, wishing for some kind of camper travel this summer, and expecting to continue building my inner strength, solidifying my ideal life and letting go of some old expectations.

It’s because I have gone through so many changes (big ones, trust me) that I have developed some quicker response times to some changes. I move through the 6 stages quickly for some changes due to my collection of experiences and the resilience I have cultivated.

As its been said, all beginnings start with an ending of something else.

And you??

How has this pandemic affected you? What Stage are you in? What do you do differently from a month ago? What will you do differently a month from now? What do you hope still happens? What is next for you? I’d really like to have this conversation with you, so feel free to comment below…or private message me…or call. I’ve lots of time.

So far, so good. Kinda.


, , , ,

You would not believe this day I’m having. And it’s only 12:24 p.m. (yes, the noon hour) as I start writing this. It started off well enough, and most of it has been just fine…pretty good, in fact. It’s this last hour and a half that has been unbelievable. Isn’t that the way it goes sometimes? No matter how much good we generate, we get hung up on the last worst thing. Well, I do, anyway. I’m working on trying to not judge myself so harshly, but it’s hard. Some days, it’s too hard. Like this morning. Let me tell you about it.

I awoke just before 6 a.m. to use the bathroom, which was good because that meant I pulled an all-nighter! Of course, I had a companion on my short trip, but lucky for me, Rocco (and the other two) let me climb back under the covers and take a quick nap before they demanded their own bathroom break and morning food. Anyway, it is trash day, so I had to get the bin out to the curb. After I fed the dogs, I made coffee and had my own breakfast of oatmeal and applesauce. So far, so good.

I sent a text to my sister, as I do every morning. It’s my “I’m alive so no need to worry” text that I send every day. Since I live alone except for the dogs, who have yet to learn how to send text messages or make phone calls, we have an arrangement such that if she doesn’t hear from me by about 8 a.m., she is to call a neighbor to check on me, in case I can’t wake up or tripped over a dog or fell down the stairs or something. It’s the cheap alternative to a Life Alert button. So far, so good.

I checked my Facebook feed and a few other news headlines. I wrote my three Morning Pages, a form of journaling and brain dumping, to get my mind and my soul ready for a new day. Then off to the shower, put on my face, get dressed, and make the bed. So far, so good.

The sun was shining, and after a gloomy, rainy day yesterday, I offered a quick prayer of gratitude. I know the plants and lawn were getting thirsty, so I appreciated that I didn’t have to start watering yet. Everything looks vibrant and fresh, and it smells clean and earthy outside.

A few days ago the four eggs of an Eastern Bluebird hatched, and now a pregnant iris has revealed her purple offspring, too. I love Springtime here in the Tidewater area! The azalea are blooming now that the daffodils are done, and the hostas have all woken up. I laid 50 bags of mulch last week, and a quick trip around the yard to admire my hard work convinced me to take the dogs for their morning walk. It was not quite 10 a.m. So far, so good.

Our usual route is around our Circle, which is a half mile, and then depending on the weather and what else is planned, we go another mile or so, or we go home. Today we went for the long walk, around the Circle, out to the Boulevard, and up to the Oxford village. We said hello to a few neighbors we saw, but mostly we sniffed the grass and trash bins, we checked pee-mail, and we leisurely admired the various planting styles from house to house. We returned home about 10:45, feeling invigorated. And thankful again that we live in such a beautiful neighborhood on such a fine spring day. I grabbed a smokey quartz crystal and a flourite, and I sat on the deck to meditate a few moments. So far, so good.

Sasha tried to jump up on my lap, while Bo put his paws on my left thigh, touching a tender spot where I have an old IT Band injury. As I lifted his paw off of me, I noticed that his toe nails were rather long, and his dew claws were almost sort of curling in toward themselves. And this is where “so far, so good,” became “this far, not good.”

My dogs are not fans of getting their nails trimmed. Usually I take them to a groomer to have it done because I hate doing it by myself about as much as they hate having it done. Most dogs I know, and most people I know who have dogs, agree that cutting dog nails are the WORST part of having a dog. It doesn’t matter how gentle you try to be, how much you love them, how sharp the clippers are, how fast you try to do it, how much peanut butter you bribe them with, it’s never a good time for anyone. Now, Sasha will go so far as to offer her paw up for a manicure to the groomer, but when it is me, it’s muzzle, it’s leash, it’s restraint, it’s hell. I am the one with the scars to prove it. So far, I’m anticipating more not so good.

Maybe it’s my own anxiety that comes through and causes the dogs to get uptight. I don’t know. But I do know that just because I start does not mean I will finish today. I have 12 paws to do. I might get 1 done, or maybe 4 but not on the same dog necessarily, and it might be 7 or 8, but it is never 12 on one day. For clarity, each paw has 4 nails, and then there are the dew claws, at least 2 per dog. That’s 54 nails to be trimmed. There is bound to be a bad snip here or a jagged edge there once in a while. It doesn’t matter if you use a Dremel and grind them down or a clippers or a scissors. It does help if you get the grooming clippers out and shave the hair off the paws as much as you can so you can actually see the nails, which I did. It does not help if some or all of the nails are black instead of white so you can see the quick. Which they are on Rocco. Yeah, so far, very not good.

I started with Rocco because he’s the easy one, the one most likely to be distracted by peanut butter. I shaved. I clipped one nail. He squirmed but he let me go on. I got nail two done. I got three and four done, all on the same paw, talking to him all the time. I moved on to the next paw, and easily got one nail done. This was almost too easy, but I went on to the second nail as I noticed the peanut butter was almost gone. And then I saw the blood. So not good!

I wasn’t sure where it was coming from but it was all over the mat I had on the counter. I guessed I had cut the quick, the vessel inside the nail, but I couldn’t see for sure where it was coming from – black nails and black fur and all. I reached for the small bottle of styptic powder, but it wasn’t in the basket of grooming tools. I couldn’t leave him on the counter, and I didn’t want blood on the floor. I disconnected him from the leash things and picked him up. He was still trying to finish up the peanut butter and wasn’t happy. Blood is now on my grooming smock and the sleeve of my white tee shirt. I hustled him to the laundry room where I keep the Doggy Rx Basket. I dumped everything out and grabbed the powder but there was no room to set it out and dip his toes, so back to the kitchen. He is increasingly not happy. I am not happy either. I am remorseful, berating myself for having cut him, apologizing, and getting worked up because he is now in full fledged Not Having It mode. So bad.

I held him under one arm and opened the styptic power jar, sprinkled some on the lid, and tried to dip his toes in it. I still wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Maybe I had clipped the skin instead of getting the nail too short? Crap! Now it looked like there was blood on the back leg as well. As I tried to grab the paw I had clipped nails on, the front paws sent the bottle of styptic powder flying across the counter and onto the floor. I asserted my larger physical self and forced him to the sink to rinse his paw, or paws, as the case might be. Good Lord, there was a continuous bright streak of red! Oh crap! Maybe I had really, really hurt him. Was he going to need stitches? How could I have done this? I had two more dogs to do – and half of this one yet – and I was the one who was having the meltdown now. So far, very very bad.

I apologized through my tears, and I held him tight. I grabbed a towel and swaddled him in it. He calmed down for a few seconds before he got his second wind and let me know just how furious he was. I told myself he just wanted the peanut butter, that he wasn’t actually in pain, but I don’t know that for sure. Back to the laundry room to get the doggy first-aid kit, tape and gauze. Have you ever tried to wrap up a dog’s paw when the dog was not cooperating? He may be only 8 months old but he has four feet and you only have two hands. He’s also got a mouth full of teeth, and I didn’t want to traumatize him so horribly that he got desperate and decided biting was the way to defend himself, so I wrangled him over to the dog crate and put him inside, hoping he would calm down a little., while I addressed the crime scene and got myself under control. So bad.

A glance at the clock told me it was now barely just a bit after 11. I scrubbed blood off the counter and the floor, got the peroxide and neosporin out, and gave myself a pep talk about the necessary evil of tending to his foot/feet. I went to get him from the crate only to discover the pillow, blanket, and door were covered in blood. I mean, OMG, yes, blood everywhere! I started crying again as I opened the door, and he stepped out on the oriental rug, the white part of course, with one small bloody paw. My penance. I’d have to look at it every single day if I couldn’t get that stain out, but now wasn’t the time. I had an injured baby to attend to. I debated calling the vet, and then I decided to make another attempt at stopping the apparent hemorrhage. I used a panti-liner (I had them on hand for when I had female dogs in heat) and sticky tape, followed by paper tape. It worked. Then I tackled the second paw. I still couldn’t tell if there was a nip there or not, but I plunged his nails into the recovered styptic powder. After cooing and cuddling did not work to calm him down, I gave in and offered him a half a diazapam, which is doggy valium. Really. I have had it on hand for years to give to Bo when traveling, because he sometimes gets anxious in the car. Maybe I should have taken it myself, but I had work to do yet. A half hour later he finally slowed down, and I put him another kennel to rest while I cleaned up the first one and started a load of laundry.

By now it was just about noon. I was exhausted. I cleaned up the mess, again. I ate a piece of chocolate cake. And I checked on my baby, now napping. I beat myself up for being a bad mama, a lousy groomer, an incompetent nurse. And then I realized what I was doing. I mean, I really was fully aware of the negativity I was feeding off of. Ooh, awareness is good. Okay. Yes, this is good. Now I can see my way to What Next?

I told myself that I wasn’t the first human to ever slip up and nip a dog. In fact, I had done it myself previously with another dog. That is why I had the styptic powder on hand, why I had two sets of clippers and a Dremel, why I had made myself a smock for doing the dog grooming, why I had tape and gauge and diazapam on hand. I was a prepared mom. I used to have help to do the grooming, but since Kevin passed on, I usually took them to a groomer, but these were extenuating times due to the Covid19 virus. I told myself a good mama would not want her babies’ nails to get too long and be a source of discomfort in themselves. So far, so good, again. undefined I debated about running to the pharmacy to get some new, fresh styptic powder, but I checked online first because I couldn’t find an expiration date on the bottle I had. It turns out there is no expiration date. And I learned also that styptic powder can sting a little, which might by why I got the reaction I did..if it wasn’t peanut butter envy. It turns out you can use regular flour, or cornstarch, or even baking soda (but that also could sting). The appropriate thing to do is to clean the “wound,” (which I did), to stifle the flow of blood with styptic, flour, or cornstarch (which I did), to put gauze and tape on it (which I did), and to try and calm the pet down (which I also did). I did everything right. If you don’t count cutting the quick in the first place. But nearly everyone does, professional groomers and loving parents alike. It happens, especially if you have an active puppy (which I do), who has a furry paw (which he does), and black nails (which he does). I had good intentions, and I took appropriate, quick action to fix the problem. Well then, so far, so good.

He was up for a little bit and is now napping again. Snoring, in fact. So I am going to let him be for a while before I attempt to change his dressing.

I don’t know why I do this to myself, play his nasty game of blaming myself for being the worst kind of parent, for one mistake in a long time. I can’t even remember the last time I have had this kind of mishap. It must be months. Well, I’ve had other mishaps and missteps, but I mean where I have caused an injury to someone or something else. At least this time, for the first time I think, I did not blame Kevin for not being here to help me, to hold a dog while I quickly got the job done. I did not blame the dog groomer for being closed during the pandemic we are experiencing. I did not blame the politicians for closing down businesses or ordering me to stay home. I did not blame anyone but me, and luckily, I caught myself fairly promptly. I took responsibility for myself, and for poor Rocco. I acknowledged that I am a good mama, that I had on hand what I needed to remedy the situation, and I took action. Not only that, I even corraled the other two dogs and started progress on their paws as well. It needs to be done, and I’m the one here to do it. I am extra cautious, although I may need more peanut butter soon. So far, so good.

I could have used a hug somewhere along the way, so once I was done doing what had to be done, I went out and hugged a tree. I have recovered my wits and self esteem. So far, so good. But there is a lot of daylight left….

Love in the Time of COVID19


, , ,

Disclosure: the title was co-opted from the novel Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I haven’t read it, so I don’t know if there is any other similarity to this post, but I doubt it.

So, here we are in the time of COVID19, the epidemic du jour, trying to love ourselves by staying healthy and unexposed to the virus, or at least not be carriers if we have some strain of it without knowing, trying to be kind to ourselves even when stressed, to love our friends despite self isolation, to love our communities despite social distancing requirements, and to love our families by staying at home. It’s a tall order. Very tall.

As a widow of now five+ years, I might be better able to deal with the isolation and distancing aspects than some others. I am used to being alone, comfortable with the quietness and some time on my hands. I’ve even saved a few dollars mostly because I am not buying gas to go somewhere and I am cooking at home instead of eating out. That’s not to say I am immune from meltdowns. I had one just yesterday. I find that writing helps me air out my negative thoughts and stirs my creativity, so I decided I’d share with you how I am getting through this rough patch we are all having to deal with.

1. Staying home, or self isolating, does not mean you have to stop all contact with everyone. I am thankful for unlimited minutes and no long-distance charges on my cell phone. (Remember when you had to call after 11 pm on the weekend in order to afford a call with your sister in a different time zone?) I wish I had unlimited data, but that’s another story. Anyway, I talk on the phone A LOT. The other day my friend Rosanne (in Minnesota) and I (in Virginia) had a 3-hour conversation over our individual coffee. I call my kids, some more than once. I text one of my sisters every single day to let her know I am fine. I have reached out to my niece Vanessa, my friend Josie, my neighbor Betty, and even former colleagues from those Good Ol’ Days. I have face-timed and Zoomed and waved from the window. If you’ve got Cabin Fever already, get in touch. It’s not the same as being with them, but it’s not bad.

2. The ripple effect of this virus extends to the economy and outward to the stock market. Where your (and my) retirement funds are waiting. Don’t look at your portfolio right now. No good can come of it. It will only depress you and speed up the meltdown. Ask me how I know! As my friend Marla said, something only has value when you sell it, so if you’re not selling right now, don’t borrow trouble. Of course, if you are “selling,” or in my case, drawing on those funds now, then it’s a bit of a different impact. My friend Phyllis reminded me of things I can’t control. So today I am working on finding other things to think about besides the possibility I won’t be able to eat out as much in 10 years as I do now. The things I can control are things like the level of exercise I give the dogs and myself, the cleanliness of my home, the information diet I consume, the rest I get. That’s good enough.

3. The stay-at-home orders mean a bit of bonus time on our hands. For me, that’s time I’m not shopping, for example. I have decided it is a good time to tap into higher creativity. Aside from glamping up my camper, I am reading new authors (Chinua Achebe) with new characters (a strong African man whose life is dominated by fear and anger) interspersed with my usual fare (a Kathleen Woodiwiss bodice ripper and aching loins saga). I am experimenting in the kitchen, baking quiche with pie crusts I made from scratch the other day; today I am going to try pistachio and chocolate biscotti).

4. Playing games with myself (not THOSE kinds!). I mean when you are running low on chocolate, which may be a necessity but by itself is not enough of a call to venture out to the grocery store, look around in that cupboard. I discovered I have cocoa powder, chocolate-flavored almond bark, and chocolate protein drinks on hand. By the time my Andes’ Mints run out (I only allow myself 2 per day, and I have 2 days’ worth left), I will have made my chocolate dipped chocolate and pistachio biscotti! I’m trying to see how long I can go in between visits to the grocery store. Today is day 6. My goal is two weeks because I have a pretty well-stocked pantry and freezer, but I’m lazy sometimes, so I’m going to call it good if I make it 10 days. So far I just haven’t felt like tater-tot hot dish or tuna casserole. I have taken a turkey out of the freezer, and I’ll probably be able to roast that tomorrow. Then I’ll have leftovers for a LONG time…at least long enough to get me to the 10 day mark, if not all 14.

5. Being thankful and mindful. As dismal as things seem, there is much to appreciate. I am so fortunate that my self-imposed quarantine site is a big house in a great neighborhood where Spring has arrived. I have a 401K to worry about and am paying my bills with a little cash left over each month. I have friends who check in on me and who I can call on just to catch up with whenever I want. I have 3 snuggle pups with amazing antics that keep me smiling. I get to practice building patience and compassion every day, so I can become a better version of me. As hard as it is, I remind myself that This Too Shall Pass.

I am actually looking forward to the world pushing the Reset Button on priorities and values. I wish the cost wasn’t so high, but I suppose that it’s gotten this way because we let it. I’ve let got of so many things in my life, a marriage that turned sour, a career that ended, a husband who died, a dream here or there that didn’t work out, among others. I know that life goes on. We change because we want to, even when it seems like life is doing things to us. We are all doing our best with what we know, or least I am, and I think most of us are. I am happening to life; life is not happening to me. So I am going to keep on keeping on, just following my heart, loving myself as much as I can. I hope you do, too.

A Few Good Men

I’ve belong to a few groups on Facebook especially set up for camping, with names like solo campers, 50’s & Over, and wandering women. I’ve also joined one called rvers, and something like roadtrippers. Today there was a post on another group by someone who talked about a male camper she had just met who creeped her out by asking a lot of personal questions. Maybe there was more to the story that she didn’t tell. Anyway, I was shocked by the “support” she got from so many other women who had to share horror stories of their own. You now might think that all male campers are weirdos or psychos, or that the world is so very unsafe that we should stay home and lock ourselves in and away from it all.

Those comments said as much about the storyteller as about the other characters or the interaction itself. I felt sad to think that there were so many walking wounded, or angry, hurt, and scared people. It’s one thing to look for support or guidance or to give warning. It’s another to employ scare tactics or bash someone (or a class of someones) because of a victim mentality or exaggerate to gain attention. It was difficult to read. I could grow a little seed of fear since I camp solo from time to time; instead, I choose to celebrate a few good men, on behalf of all the other good men.

I don’t think it’s because I am in any way desensitized to these kinds of things. I’ve work in the legal/judicial field all of my adult life. I have heard true stories that can’t be matched by amateurs. But more than that, I think it’s because I trust my own experiences of this world over that of someone else, even if they really believe their version of whatever they are telling me. If my own experience is different, then that is what I know to be true. I know – it can be challenging to change my opinions when necessary, but I always start from the point of what is true for me.

As a woman “solowingnow,” I’m sure I could be excused for feeling vulnerable or withdrawing into a very tight niche. I spend a fair amount of time by myself. I don’t think that makes me gullible. Rather, it has made me aware, of my surroundings, of my own limits, of the value of another person.

I know at least a few good men, starting with my sons.

My boys before they were men

My sons (including my son-in-law) are good parents. They are responsible and law abiding and funny and loving and helpful and productive and thoughtful and smart and generous. They aren’t perfect, but they are awesome, and they learn and they grow and they try. They are confident without being arrogant; they are courageous without taking stupid risks; they are creative at living while doing what needs to be done. I have no reason to believe my grandson won’t carry on these fine qualities.

I have a good brother, too. He has figured out how to not fix things when I call in tears, and to just listen.

My baby brother

But when I do need things fixed, he picks up a screwdriver and flashlight or a chain saw. When I need to worry and say things out loud to make sense of them, he listens and waits for me to give him the green light to talk, and then he says “I’ve got your back.” We don’t always agree, so we’ve learned to disagree with respect.

Of course, I had a great husband, and actually two great husbands but the first one was only great for a while and then he wasn’t so great, so I consider him my starter husband. He wasn’t him all bad all the time. My second husband, though, he was a real keeper.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is vaughn-kev-fish.jpg
Kevin teaching Vaughn about fish cleaning

He had a way of smiling so that you knew he felt it all the way to his bones. He was as gentle as they come when it came to holding babies and playing with puppies and baking pies. He never tried to force his opinions on me (or anyone else), and he was patient, and shy, and appreciative. He couldn’t keep a dollar in his pocket, and he had some kind of damn bad luck with boats and docks on fishing opener, but he was comfortable in his own skin and liked his own company. I trusted him with my life.

I worked with some great guys over the years, too. There was an attorney boss who helped me study for a paralegal certification exam. The director who made a call to put things in motion when I was only getting stalled. Another attorney who nominated me for Legal Secretary of the Year (I won, by the way). The judge who still sends me Christmas cards more than 10 years after he retired. The colleague who invited me to co-present at a conference so we could both get some national experience. The one a few steps away on the org chart who went out of his way to come to Kevin’s funeral a few years after we both had gone on to other jobs. The neighbor who shovels my walk when it snows, and the one who cares for his wife in a Memory Care Facility twice a day, every day, and the one who fostered and then adopted two brothers, and the one who taught me to drive a motorcycle, and the ones who help me back my camper in at the campground, and the one who helped my friend push her dead car out of the traffic, and the one who shares joy by dressing as Santa Claus and distributing toys on his motorcycle, and the one who takes pride in helping newbie public speakers practice their speeches, and the one who teaches self defense to women, and … and … and …. so many more.

I know some jerks and liars and cheats and condescending animals, too, of both the male and female variety. I’m not naive; I’ve got my own sob stories and tall tales. There are some people I avoid, some I am wary of, and some I tolerate. And some I love. But what I don’t do is lump them all in the same basket and consider them ALL bad apples.

I am glad that women are engaged and informed and that they find reasonable opportunities to express their views openly. I wish it could be without attacking or antagonizing – and yes, offending. I do feel offended when the men in my life are defenseless against this infectious, unfocused, unbridled anger.

So today I am standing up for not just the few good men in my life, but the ones in your lives, and everywhere. When I was raising my boys, I used to say that I couldn’t show my boys how to be men exactly, but I could show them how to respect themselves and others. When I was dating, I would ask myself if I would want my children to be like this man. And now as a widow, I say this prayer: God, please help me help myself, so I can help others help themselves.

I’d sure like it if you would tell me about a good man, or a few good men, that you know! Please comment below. Let’s share the goal of spreading some civility today.

Smoking Gun (..or oven) Clue


, ,

Wouldn’t it be something if this was a scratch-n-sniff blog? Then you could not only see the snapshots or interpret the words you are reading, but you could really jump into the scene you are imagining based on those pictures and words. A video would help if there was a sound – and there was – but given the situation, it would have bordered on reckless to take the time to track down my phone, find the camera app, and record the chaos. I couldn’t even capture the hazy scene of the crime.

You see, last night I had a little situation thing happen. But let me back up a few steps and set the stage, so you can get the full impact. When was the last time you did something for the first time? I don’t mean you bought a new something or other, or even that you tasted something different. No, I mean that you DID, you experienced, you engaged yourself fully into a new activity. Can you remember? As grievers especially, it can be very difficult to even think of such a thing; it is so much easier to pretend we can stop all the change going on around us. So we keep the status quo. Of course, the more time that has passed, the more likely you are to agree or give in and try something new. Which I did.

It has been five years for me. I think I have done a pretty bitchin’ job at active grieving, and I have tried and tried and tried things. But mostly I have tried again things I already know or knew how to do. I used to ride motorcycle, so I rode around town. I used to paint furniture, so I up-cycled a gun cabinet. I used to do puzzles, so I opened a new box. In the past year, though, I have really opened myself to living life in full bloom. I have taken my camper halfway across the country – twice in one summer! I have ripped up old, ratty carpet and laid (peel and stick) tile to freshen my closet. And I have learned to make a pie from scratch, crust included. That’s where this story picks up.

On my annual List of 101 Things I Want To Do In My Life, making a flaky pie crust has shown up since about 1991. Yes, really. Along with learning to drive a motorcycle (check), visiting Italy (check), completing my college degree (check, check), somewhere on the list was making a pie crust. Ha! The Bucket List movie has nothing on me!! One day I asked my friend Dee if she would show me how because she makes a great crust. She said yes, and I got my lesson.

I brought the ingredients to make an apple pie. She somehow thought I had done all this before, but Kevin was the pie baker in our house. I occasionally made a quiche using a store-bought Pillsbury crust, which frankly, is nothing to write about. What I mean to say is that Dee did not “correct” or “advise” me about the small, thin pieces of apple I was slicing being too small and thin; she thought I knew what I was doing. As you might guess, she did guide me every step of the way on the crust, which turned out great, and I ended up with applesauce pie! This was back in early December.

Since I was going to stay home for the holidays, Dee invited me to her house for Christmas dinner. When I asked what I could bring, she told me to bring a pie, since I now knew how to make one. Great! Fabulous! If I waited too long between the lesson and doing it on my own, it might not “take.” I was happy to oblige. So I made the crust and put it in the freezer for the time when I was going to make the pie.

This time I cut thick chunks of apple, mixed it with a little flour, cinnamon and sugar, and dotted it with butter. I had a fat, tall hunk of pie ready for the oven. The crust sealed well, I poked a few slits in the top, and in she went to the oven. I even put a cookie sheet below it to catch any juices that might overflow. (Which meant that the pie was not on the lowest shelf of the oven, the cookie sheet was. If you, too, are not an experienced pie baker, this will be important later.)

My Christmas Pie

I baked it the required amount of time according to Betty Crocker and my friend Dee. The top of the pie looked lovely.

The bottom didn’t look like it was brown enough. I didn’t want applesauce again, so I removed the cookie sheet, thinking it was dispersing the heat that would cause the crust to bake fully. And the crust became golden like I wanted, just as the juices snuck out of the slits on top and flowed to the bottom of the oven.

You now know where this is going; that scratch-n-sniff reference above is making sense. The pie looked (and tasted) awesome; it was a novice’s dream come true. I was proud to take it to Christmas dinner. I would deal with the oven mess later.

Yesterday was the day to do that dealing. It was near 70 outside, so I could open the windows and let fresh air in. Except I didn’t remember I was going to do it until about 6 pm last night. When it wasn’t still 70; it was more like 50 after the sun went down.

I have a self-cleaning feature on my stove, as well as a steam cleaning one. I don’t know what the difference is. I don’t use the oven much, and certainly not for pies that can overflow and cause hard meteorite-like, volcanic-rock bombs on the floor of the oven. Kevin was the oven user, and he took care of any messes like this, if there were any, which I don’t remember. In the five years he has been gone, this was the first need for cleaning.

I hit the button for Self Clean, and I heard the click as the oven door locked itself from the inside apparently. I headed to the family room to watch a movie while Mr. Oven did his magic. Only what Mr. Oven did was cough and spew out smoke, like the flue on the fireplace wasn’t open or something. Within 10 minutes, the kitchen was full of smoke. I smelled it first, and then was shocked to see the cloudiness in the kitchen. I quickly ran and turned the stove hood vent on high. I opened the window over sink. Whew! That was odd, I thought. I didn’t realize the apple pie syrupy drops would or could generate this much smoke.

How much smoke, you ask? Enough to now set off the smoke detector. The dogs started barking, and I rushed to open the dining room door to the deck. Out went all three dogs while I grabbed a step stool to reach the detector to shut it off. Which, of course, it would not do. So just before I was going to rip it off the wall, I got the battery compartment door open and took out the battery. But I am lucky to be so safe; the stupid thing is hard wired, and the battery is apparently just a back-up measure in case the electricity fails. Mercifully, I managed to push something that made it stop. Sweet Jesus, I was exhausted and my own ears were ringing. Dogs were nowhere in sight.

I put a small table-top fan on the stove to help direct the exhaust out the kitchen window. That didn’t do enough, so I set a floor fan on top of the counter to blow the smoke out the back door.

It turns out that smoke itself is not hot the way flames are. It was rapidly cooling down in the house. I called the dogs back inside, and the two small ones came in. Bo, though, got close enough to smell the putrid air and turned back to the yard. Commanding him didn’t work, and neither did the biscuit bribe. I had to go grab him and carry him inside.

The smoke was dissipating, ever so slowly, so I didn’t want to close the door yet. I placed a chair in front of it, and Bo immediately saw his chance to escape and took it. I retrieved him once more, and propped a laundry basket he couldn’t jump over in the doorway, supported by the chair and blocked with another stool. It was only a half hour of chaos, yet seemed like all night long. If I had a scratch-n-sniff blog, you could smell the dead pie drippings and know exactly how my night went. According to the timer on the stove, the magic Self Cleaning would be done in another 3 hours and 16 minutes. Oh joy!

It finally did what it had to do, and turned itself off. I could not make myself look inside. It obviously had to be more than just the few little droplets of sugar that I imagined. I would deal with the fallout later. Later seems to be my modus operandi lately.

This morning when I knew with absolute certainty that the over was cool to the touch, I dared to open the door. It turns out the oven is not exactly sparkly clean as I imagined it would be. There are piles of ash to be wiped out, and the door glass is kind of streaky, with brownish stripes running down it. But it will be ready to use again once I wipe it down…I hope. Which is good, since for a Christmas gift Dee gave me a set of single-serving dishes so I can make individual pies. Now six pies can drip at one time instead of one. More joy. (Next time I am going to try that Steam Clean option.)

Anyway, there is an interesting lesson in all this. In the past few years, I would have blamed Kevin for this mess, after I stopped crying. Because he should be here to make the pies so I wouldn’t have made the pie in the first place, never mind that I had the making of a pie crust on my List for at least 10 years before I even met him. I would have felt anger that he didn’t at least cosmically guide me to use foil instead of a cookie sheet to catch any drips, so I could have had a golden crust AND a mess I could have thrown away. I would have contemplated selling the house to avoid having to clean the oven… or at least swore I would never use the oven again if it was going to cause the smoking catastrophe.

But I didn’t. Instead, I was reminded of this quote. It’s the tiniest bit out of context but so relevant here. Julia Cameron wrote in The Artist’s Way:

The truth of life really has little to do with its quality. The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight.

I found delight in my situation. It did not even occur to me to blame Kevin, nor to feel sorry for myself. I accepted all the responsibility; I even laughed at the Keystone Cops similarity of getting the smoke out while keeping the dogs in. And I’m already looking forward to doing it again, better, because I want to make a quiche for dinner tonight. That, my friends, is proof positive that I am in full healing mode.

How are you doing? I’d like to know.

First Christmas “Alone”



Can you really be “alone” if you have three dogs living with you? And you get an invitation from your good friend and her husband to join them for Christmas dinner? And a date to go to dinner and a movie with the same friend and her hubs a few days before Christmas? Or if you video chat with your kids and exchange texts with them and your sisters and brother before, on, and after Christmas Day? Or if you have phone calls lasting over an hour with one sister and another with your best girlfriend before you head out to the friend’s place? Or if another friend sets you up to meet her cousin and his wife who happen to be spending the holidays in my town? Which means I did not really spend Christmas alone.

Ssince Kevin died, I have had the past five Christmases with at least one of my kids (and usually at least two of them) and their families. Twice I have enjoyed the holidays with a sibling (or all four of them). And I have been able to spend time with friends each and every time. Yet, being away from home has usually meant I spare myself the expected agony of decorating and undecorating, shipping packages, baking for crowds, and being alone – not quite the same as feeling lonely.

This year I decided to stay home. Up went one tree (but not the usual two). Up went a lighted garland over the front door (but not on the railings or the deck). Up went the elves and reindeer (but not the snowmen or the nutcrackers). My bedspread was changed out (but not in the guest rooms), and the dining room table cloth, kitchen towels and apron, couch pillows, bathroom towels, and fireplace mantel were also changed out to more festive attire (but not the shower curtain). I’d show you pictures but it’s December 27, and I took it all down, put it back, and cleaned up today (instead of waiting until New Year’s Day).

I did bake and frost my traditional sugar cookies and Mexican biscochitos. I made the usual flavored pretzels. I drank mulled wine and listened to many of the Christmas CD’s and albums in my collection. I watched holiday movies, too. I did all the things we used to do. And I cried doing much of it. Not oceans of tears, but yeah, it was a long trip down memory lane.

The hardest part, I think, was the anticipation, thinking that decorating by myself would be sad, or that baking would be a drag, or that the reminders would be so hard to bear. In truth, that anxiety exceeded the reality. It turned out to be a bit of fun to do it ALL my way, without the teasing about my need for control. It took me two days to put things out and then change my mind and move them around, and that was just fine. We used to get the decorating all done in a day, and then hustle to get all the baking done, and we would multitask by watching a movie while we were doing something else. This year I was much more relaxed, stopping to do what I wanted when I wanted. I baked one day, frosted cookies the next. I even got a box of Christmas cards sent out, with personalized notes in each one.

When Christmas Day finally arrived, the gift opening took about two minutes – mostly because I wrapped all the dogs’ presents and had to help them open them up. But it was smooth going. No rush, no mess, no chaos, just a fire, good coffee, music in the background. Once the whole Getting Ready For Christmas was done, I found I enjoyed the actual Christmas Day quite a bit.

I realized that while I had been occasionally emotional at times in the weeks prior, it was not a stressful time. It was another little letting-go time for me. When it was most difficult was when I was by myself, so I sometimes reached out and shared stories with my friends or my family. We could laugh together, and they helped me remember other funny or poignant things I had forgotten. Like remembering the year the Copper John’s Dead Nuts fiber-optic 3-pin sight for his bow didn’t arrive on time. I worked to so hard to get exactly the right thing, and then it didn’t happen the way I wanted. So I put a photocopy of the order form in a tiny box, and wrapped it up. I watched him sweat it out, thinking I had gotten him a ring or something. He was so relieved (and extremely happy with the bow sight), but he told me that for future reference, jewelry was NEVER a good idea for him! Or the year he flew the (expensive) remote control helicopter into the wall and busted it up on it’s maiden flight. He spent as much to have it fixed as I paid for it, but he didn’t tell me that until after he got it repaired! And the year he got my sister to help him buy me a pair of “good” tweezers because he couldn’t figure out the difference in what he saw at the store. Or when he surprised me with an electronic keyboard because I once told him that I had wanted to learn to play piano when I was a kid.

There were … ARE … a lot of good memories and fun times that I don’t want to forget. Sometimes it is good to stay home and remember them, without all the distractions, travel hassles, and togetherness. And now that Christmas is put away for another year, while my heart is still wide open (and the weather is good), I am going to finish off the holidays by heading off to visit one of my sisters and celebrate the coming New Year. I am packing up three dogs, clothes for all weather contingencies, the cookies and pretzels I can’t eat more of, and gifts I have collected from some friends to help her in her recovery from the house fire she suffered this past summer.

My son gifted me a book for Christmas, The Next Person You Meet in Heaven, by Mitch Albom. It’s a sequel to The Five People You Meet in Heaven. It’s a great read; I’m already done with it. This part stuck with me:

“We fear loneliness, Annie, but loneliness itself does not exist. It has no form. It is merely a shadow that falls over us. And just as shadows die when light changes, that sad feeling can depart once we see the truth.

“What’s the truth?” Annie asked.

“That the end of loneliness is when someone needs you.” The old woman smiled. “And the world is so full of need.”

This holiday season I have been blessed, again. I was able to recognize and meet my own needs by staying home, remembering, enjoying, crying, healing. Plus, there were those dogs who needed me, too! I wasn’t lonely, even if I was “alone” much of the time. It was a pretty good Christmas after all. I won’t hesitate to do it this way again.

I’d like to hear about your first Christmas alone, or what some of your favorite holiday traditions are. Feel free to comment below. Here’s to hoping for another great year of memory-making in 2020!!

Love Potion #9

When you are solo, whether by design, divorce, or death, it is easy, and almost necessary, to go searching for the magic that will make you feel less lonely and more relevant in the world, less dull and more alive. What I have discovered is that there is no One Size Fits All solution to these problems, or most any problem, for that matter.

I must confess, though, I have found my answer. Yes, friends, love is the answer!! We’ve heard it in songs, in poetry, and from well-meaning friends. It turns out it is true. Falling in love is known to cure all kinds of ills and ails, and so I have jumped into the waters one more time.

I met him online just over a week ago. I know what you are thinking – this is wild! But I must believe that old saying is true that you find love when you’re not looking for it. But I know this about me: I need touch, I need attention, I need laughter. Rocco provides all of this, and more.


He is gentle, and funny, and exuberant, and playful, and curious, all the qualities a gal looks for in a guy. Or a mommy looks for in a furbaby. And that’s exactly what I got, all in one four-month-old bundle of fluff and slobber. Meet Rocco, the new man in my life.

I saw his picture on a Facebook post, and I zapped it off it to my sister just to look. He is a Shih-Tzu and she has one. I had been thinking of maybe looking for another senior Yorkie like my Harley, maybe after Christmas. I called her, and as we were talking, I got a text from the dog rescue organization I volunteer with.

I was also preparing for the adoptive parents of Molly, the beagle, to come get her at 10:30. Wouldn’t you know it? At 12:30 I was on my way to pick up Rocco (then named Wrigley) to foster. He is my 9th foster dog in just over two years, and my first puppy. You know how people say “third time is the charm?” Well, this is not only the third one I have “foster failed” by adopting, but as the ninth one, he is my Love Potion #9.

Just to be clear, I still love the other dogs I have now (Bo and Sasha–my first foster, who I adopted) and the ones I have lost (Cookie, Chica, Blackie, Buddy, and Harley–my second foster who I also adopted) and the ones I have only had for a short time until they found their furever homes (Lily, Rascal, Dopey a/k/a Bandit, Paris, Dixie, and Molly).

Rocco has awakened something in me, and I like it. He filled an empty spot, and not just the vacancy created by Harley’s passing this last July. He makes me want to stay on my toes, to learn from him instead of making him learn my ways, to get down on his level and see the world from a simpler view. He has brought fun back to me.

Here’s an example of my life now.

The other day he got his stitches removed from being neutered, so I gave him his first bath (at my house). It turns out he HATES water. Does. Not. Like. Being. Wet. He does not like getting his face wet, and he isn’t much more happy about having his bum washed. He squealed like a baby goat! And not just once. I laughed so hard he stopped for a second and stared at me. I am sure my arms were shaking as I was holding his wet tiny body. So he started to shake, too, you know, how dogs shake all the water off their bodies? I let go of the water sprayer to grab a towel to protect the counter and window, but the nozzle hit the side of the sink just right and there was water shooting up in the air like a fountain. It was hilarious’; I thought I might pee my pants.

He started shrieking again (yep, the baby goat cry again), which made Sasha start barking, which made Bo pay attention and start his own baying. If it had been summer and door a was open so someone would have heard us, they would have called 911 and come running. It was a comedy I hadn’t been part of in forever. My sides hurt from laughing. It was the zaniest, craziest thing that has happened to me in long while. I hugged his dripping wet body next to me while I shut off the water, and we sat on the floor recovering. Ah, it feels so good to laugh. He still didn’t think it was funny and scrambled away. But Oh My Gosh! I still smile just remembering it.

Well, anyway, by the time I caught him and had him dried off, my coffee was cold but I had a good dose of Love Potion #9, so it all turned out better than okay. The adoption will be finalized this week, and my new little family will be making more memories. Will have to work on the bath thing, though. Beagles only need baths 3-4 times a year, but apparently Shih-Tzus about every 3-4 weeks. God help us! It might not be so funny the next time, or by this time next year!

Why I Haven’t Posted in 6 Months

Back in March of this year, I noted that it had been four months since my previous post of November 2018. I said I would do better, post more frequently. I had good intentions. I believed it when I said it. And then Life sorta happened, as it does sometimes.

There really is no one good reason, nor any number of smaller good reasons why I have not been diligent about keeping up the blog. There are a few excuses, of course, like: I’ve been busy, I’ve been traveling, I’ve been tired, I’ve been suffering from a lack of motivation. But the truth is closer to the fact that I have hit a lazy patch … in terms of posting. And maybe it has to do with my need to bring closure to the grieving process and open wide the door between testing out and actively living my new life.

Defense #1: being busy.

I actually have been busy with home repairs and general maintenance; most recently, it’s getting the thermocouple replaced on the fireplace. The camper needed new tires, and a bit of spiffing up. The office begged for decluttering and reorganizing. Plus, I am president of my local homeowners’ association. We have had four regular and 2 special meetings since March, and our Annual Meeting is in just about two weeks from now. We adopted new Architectural Guidelines (which I drafted) and a budget for next year, and we got a new website published last week. Yes, busy is me!

Defense #2: traveling.

And I have been traveling; I’ve taken Saffianna (my travel trailer) on three separate journeys to Minnesota (with stops in Toledo, Muscatine, and Redwood Falls and stays at Sauk Centre and along Lake Superior), North Carolina (Asheville), and New Mexico (via Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee; Pioneer Woman Mercantile in Pawhuska, Oklahoma; Albuquerque/Santa Fe/Madrid/Los Alamos/Taos; the Magnolia Market in Waco, Texas; and Nashville, Tennessee). That was 53 days and just over 10,000 miles. Hard to write when your hands are on a steering wheel.

Defense #3: tiredness.

Oh, and have I been tired!! Physically and emotionally. Not only did I suffer from allergies that flared up on my most recent trip, but in July I had to unexpectedly say goodbye to my Yorkie Harley who got cancer. I then fostered Dixie for three weeks (and who was in heat and ran away once – for five hours), Molly for 4-1/2 weeks (and was also in heat), and now Rocco (who I am planning to formally adopt).

Defense #4: writing v. blogging.

I have been writing but just not on this blog nor not posting what I have drafted. I am especially proud of the fact that I have been doing Morning Pages, a journaling program devised by Julia Cameron of The Artist’s Way fame. (Spoiler Alert: I am going to be facilitating a 12-week Creative Cluster recommended by Cameron, using her book as a guide, starting in January.) I hand-write three pages every morning. Every morning. Three pages. Every. Morning. Of course, if I wrote posts for this blog every morning, or drafted three pages of my book every morning, I’d be considered quite prolific. And probably have a tangible product in my hands. Instead, I’m not/don’t. I’m not sure what to do about that. Except just do it. I blame it on the constant change-ups in my routine, but I think it might be something else.


The good news is that my busy-ness is an indicator of how things in my life keep changing and settling into place. All of my own doing. If things didn’t evolve, if there was nothing to look forward to, if there were no fun days or reasons to get out of bed, if I was still deep in the grip of my grief, I wouldn’t be having all of these excuses to fall back on. Which are good excuses, I think.

It’s not auto-pilot that keeps me going. In fact, it’s quite the opposite: it was fear of getting stuck on auto-pilot that gave me the nudge to have an active grief. I intentionally worked through my grief, and worked on my grief, to process the feelings I was having or not having, to prioritize my growth through all the confusion and doubts, and uncertainties revealed by new discoveries from this life I was having. Once I started to realize my confidence was returning and I was being productive again, I kept working to create a life I didn’t want or need to escape from. I was consciously aware of the challenge of avoiding the danger zone that opens up when I feel anxious or defeated or unproductive.

Integration Achieved!

So being busy, going places, learning new things, are all signs not just of acceptance but that I have integrated the changes brought about by Kevin’s death. I have not just risen from the ashes; I have successfully designed my new happy place.

New direction?

The question remains, what to do about this blog. I started out wanting to chronicle my grieving process as well as to practice and improve my writing skills. I have enjoyed posting, when I did it. I enjoy writing, whether for journaling purposes or publication, so I plan to keep on doing it. I think that part of the reason I have let my interest wane is because I have moved through the darkness, the sadness, the heaviness of grieving, and I don’t want to get stuck back there. I have come out the other side, the place of New Beginnings.

So my plan is to take Solowingnow into the future, writing about my new vantage point with a Solo-status perspective, having achieved my own Wings, not quite single but not wanting to be defined as a widow, focusing on the Now.

That’s the plan anyway. Unless Life gets in the way again. And who could not want that?

Purple Hair


, , ,

Dateline: Santa Fe,  July 2018, on one of the best summer vacations this girl has ever had. Not counting Italy. But that was fall, not summer. Anyway….

The Night at the Plaza

The music was heard two blocks away as we walked toward the Plaza, so that gives you an idea of the volume once we got closer. We found a small patch of unoccupied ground, unfolded our lawn chairs, and sat down. The flyer classified the sound as Americana/Indie, and the people dancing were enjoying it as much as those of us who were just people-watching. The relentless heat had finally abated…or was it the ice cream the cooled us down? New Mexico’s Largest Free Music Festival seemed to draw a mostly local crowd enjoying a local band on an outdoor stage in a park. I was glad we came.plaza

It was plenty loud, so my friends Patti, Josie, and Evelyn and I were not trying to make conversation but were communicating with our own kind of language: raised eyebrows, smiles, thumbs up or down, nods, and turns of the head as one character or another caught our attention. Like the chicken on a leash who had  her toenails painted to match her human’s toenails. Or the lady in the shiny pink stiletto heels that were sinking at every step, making her stumble as walked across the grass. Or the kid climbing the tree next to the sign that read “Do Not Climb The Tree.”

Or the blonde woman in the long-sleeved black sweater (oh yes, and did I mention how warm it was?) and khaki pants. She walked across the Plaza directly to where I was sitting; I had no doubt that I was her target.  I had no idea who she was or if I might recognize her from when I lived there a lifetime ago. Yeah… no clue.

“Do you … (something) …  ?” she asked me.

Eyebrows up in response. “Excuse me?” I half shouted.

“Do you live here?” she repeated. “I hope so.” (Wait-what?? Did I hear that right?)SFe Patti Evelyn

“No, sorry, I don’t.  But can we help you with something?” I thought if I didn’t know where whatever she wanted was, my friends who were all locals could help.

How to Get Perspective, Maybe

Her next statement took me by surprise. “I hoped you did, because my husband I are thinking of moving here, and with your purple hair – which I love, by the way – I thought you must not be a conservative and we are trying to get away from them and so if you lived here, there must be other liberals here, too, and we might like it here.”

Wow. It was a loaded statement, to be sure; I gave her points for taking a risk. My next thought was, I don’t really have purple hair. I have a few streaks of colored hairspray, which happened to be pink that day, but … whatever. I wondered if she had too much to drink. I looked around for the invisible husband and caught Patti’s questioning look. I shrugged just enough that my new friend saw it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You probably think I’m weird, and I’m not, but really, you just gave me so much hope.” She actually looked let down.

Hope? From (not) purple hair?!? I tried to encourage her with a smile, and she responded in kind.

In the next few minutes, she told me that she is 65 and her husband is 75. She just recently had a birthday and realized that if she divided her life into 5 year blocks, she has lived 13 blocks of time, and given her education, self-care, access to medical care, and current lifestyle, she expects she will live another 3 blocks, but her husband may only have 1 block of time left. So it’s important that they make some decisions before time runs out. Whew! And there was more.

They live in Arizona, have sold their places in Mexico and on Cape Cod, and are looking for the last place they will live. She is concerned that Scottsdale has become too conservative and she is fearful she no longer belongs there. (Ooh, belonging. I can relate!) She likes Santa Fe but wants to make sure that there are people like her here because she will undoubtedly end up alone when her husband dies. So he told her to go talk to some locals and find out what it was really like behind the glossy pages of the magazines. My purple (or pink) hair caught her attention.

I can’t fault the logic of talking to someone who might have a different perspective on the quality of life to be had there, but to pick someone in a park listening to a band because she has color in her hair, which must make her a liberal, seemed somewhat random (and maybe a bit desperate?)  to me. I took her at her word, though, and engaged in the conversation. She seemed harmless enough. I’m glad I did; she turned out to be a fun person to talk with, albeit a little intense.

It wasn’t just about her. She again expressed genuine fear about not belonging wherever she was. I couldn’t be sure but I had the feeling she thought she might find herself alone sooner rather than later in regards to the husband. I shared that I was solowingnow and had been for over 3 years, and that I had moved around some in my career so I could relate to the right fit of a particular community.  I told her that I just recently had a conversation of a similar vein with my daughter about my choice to stay living in Virginia after Kevin died. Renae was concerned that I was isolating myself and not being connected enough to her or my other kids and their families.


To the contrary, I stayed in part because I did feel like I was accepted there and belonged. My neighbors had made sure to include me, to seek me out, to check on me.  In fact, I felt/feel more connected there in the short time I had been there than I had in the last five years I had lived in South Dakota. Plus, I needed time to just be me for once; not be someone’s mother or wife or any anything. To figure out who I am now and what I want out of the rest of my life. She gave me a hug and said she just knew I was the right person for her to talk with.

An interesting side note: I had also just started reading Brene Brown’s book Braving the Wilderness, The Quest for True Belonging and the Courage to Stand Alone. I highly recommend it. (Update: check her out on Netflix also.) Brown is a social scientist who has researched and written on experiences that bring meaning to our lives and how we need to belong to ourselves even when we want to be part of something else.  She says early on in this book that “you will always belong anywhere you show up as yourself and talk about yourself and your work in a real way.” I recommended the book to her. And that night, I felt like I belonged there and that talking with this woman was a very natural thing to do. Of course, I didn’t have to defend myself to her; she was looking for a like-minded person, and she found one. Thanks to my purple (pink) hair, apparently.

We carried on our conversation above the music and somehow we heard each other. Probably because we were both curious about the other and were really listening hard. I felt like I made a difference to her, and that felt really good to me. I remembered also the good times in Santa Fe, not the disillusionment that ultimately led to my leaving…23 years ago. I found myself thinking that if I moved back here and if she moved here, we could be friends. Her name is Jean Marie, and maybe someday I’ll see her on the Plaza again. I’ll have to put more purple (or pink, as it really was last night) in my hair so she’ll recognize me.

Reflecting on Who I Am .. Was … Am …

I hadn’t thought much about the fact that my hair could say so much about me.  Then again, I suppose the natural silver color alone is a statement about me; the purple color is just another dimension. I’m sure I send all kinds of messages by the way I dress, the people I hang with, the tattoo on my wrist, the smiles I give, the venues I show up at; why not the color of my hair? or skin? or height, or weight, or the accent in my voice? I wonder what she told her husband about me that I didn’t tell her. I think I had a tendency to dismiss all those factoids most of the time, but since this night, I have started to pay more attention. As Neale Donald Walsch has said in Conversations With God, “The only reason to do anything is as an expression of who you are.”  

The story could stop here, but no. Ever since that night, I have had a running conversation with myself about living in Santa Fe again.

I went to a few open houses, talked with a realtor and saw a few more houses, and started actively considering a move. I mentally went into room in my house in Virginia to select what I would keep and what I would let go of. I wondered who would miss me if I left. That was the upside.


There was, though, a big downside. Never mind the money aspect; there is the ex-husband, and the marriage and the divorce, the leaving. Been there, done that, including a failed attempt at a reconciliation almost a year after the divorce. Could I go back? Could I make myself believe that the 23-year journey I’ve been on since then was all necessary for growth and pruning necessary for more growth? Could I dispose of, dispense with, dump, and discard my material possessions and convince myself that things don’t matter? Would I stay in a place of forgiveness or would I have to reopen and reexamine old wounds? Would I be able to accept a new standard of living? Would I like and accept the new person I am sure to become? Do I have it in me to dream big one more time, or will past unfulfilled dreams get in the way? Is this a true do-over, a chance … for what?

Fast Forward Almost a Year

Well…….I wrote that first part of this post last year when I spent seven weeks in Santa Fe. As you may know, I chose not to make the move then, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had to still answer those same questions. And some new ones. A trip around the sun doesn’t guarantee all the answers.

For example, I am going to visit family in Minnesota for a high school graduation and a wedding celebration next month. It’s “home,” kinda, but it’s also not my home anymore. It’s a place to remind me of my roots but more and more when I go back, I need my own space. So I am taking my camper, which is another expression of who I am now, collageand instead of hanging out with at the homes of my sibs, I will have my own campsite at a lake, and they can come visit me if they want. They have jobs, and houses to maintain, and their own families and friends. I don’t want them to feel obligated to entertain me for weeks on end, and I don’t want to feel I have to be the gracious guest for weeks on end.

I want to see my old home through different eyes this time. Not because I am considering moving back (have you heard about the winters??); moreso because I am gratefully arriving at a place in my life where I can appreciate my past more, appreciate the environment and the people and the quirks, appreciate my own history, without clinging to it.  I can enjoy the process of that reflection. I will have my own home, which is a kind of security in itself, a grounding that keeps me connected to who I am now, so I don’t fall unaware into who I maybe used to be when I was there.

I don’t necessarily mind that the old labels defined me, because there is a  sense of belonging can’t be replicated any other way. But I also want to be the expression of who I am now. I used to be the girl who shared a blah blue bedroom with two beds and three younger sisters. Now I drove 2000 miles to get there, have pink polka-dotted curtains with fringe on the bottom that I made myself, in a camper I named Saffianna with a beaded chandelier and an antique quilt, and an ironing board repurposed as a table. I have a tattoo, drive a pickup truck, walk three dogs (one of which is blind and deaf), and I have purple or pink or silver hair, depending on my mood that day. You could say that someone who likes antiques, drives a pickup truck, has a dog, and knows what an ironing board is could be a conservative traditionalist. I say it’s kinda hard to be accurate about who I am if you don’t really know me.

Free at Last!

It’s only been in the last year that I even experimented with purple or pink hair spray. That is one of the facets among the multitude of changes I have made since I found myself a widow. I might have gotten here eventually anyway, but widowhood has gifted me time to discover a sense of freedom and a confidence simply from having survived it.

At best, you can say I am still evolving. Gingerly. Happily. Curiously.