Author Archives: jtamburini

You name it, I've done it (and laughed). I am 59 and life just keeps getting better. Join me by reading about life's many adventures!

A Dream of Trees – Grateful.org

Happy Tuesday!

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,/A quiet house, some green and modest acres/A little way from every troubling town,/A little way from factories, schools, laments…
— Read on grateful.org/resource/a-dream-of-trees/

Please enjoy this beautiful piece by one of my favorite writers, Rona Maynard, and follow her on Substack! Happy Sunday.

open.substack.com/pub/ronamaynard/p/here-i-am

The Universal Need to Grieve  — Center for Action and Contemplation

Richard Rohr writes of the necessity of grief. Learn how to enter the “weeping mode” of prayer and acceptance in the Daily Meditation from CAC.
— Read on cac.org/daily-meditations/the-universal-need-to-grieve/

Truth

When I was very young, my Mom let me go on a mini adventure one afternoon with a nun from our small town parish. Her name was Sister Arthur, and like the name suggests, she had a (in my mind) tall stature and commanding presence. For reasons to which I was never privy, it was determined to be a good idea for me to join Sister Arthur on a little field trip about an hour away from home to an ancient Indian burial ground in search of treasures. What precocious child wouldn’t want to venture out for such an adventure?

As best I can guess, Sister Arthur must have taken me to the Towosahgy State Historic Site in East Prairie, Missouri. According to the Missouri State Parks website, this location is “surrounded by some of the most fertile farmland in Missouri….a former fortified village and civic-ceremonial center for Mississippian peoples who lived in southern Missouri between A.D. 1000 and A.D. 1400.” I believe what is pictured is what my young eyes saw that day. While I cannot remember anything Sister Arthur said to me that day, I vividly recall feeling a sense of wonder and reverence. The sight of her hands holding an arrowhead and telling me something about how it was made and its purpose is emblazoned in my memory, though exact words I cannot recall. I just remember feeling very special to have been chosen for this wondrous one-on-one field trip. I always wondered, “where have all the people who used to live here gone?”

The impact of that single exposure to something so massively important to civilization sparked a curiosity in me about excavating artifacts. I began digging and searching around my home and surrounding farmland for similar treasures, only to come up with handfuls of limestone rock, usually. That Christmas my grandmother nurtured my curiosity and gave me a rock polisher. While I never returned to the sacred Indian mound, I imagined treasures of my own from mini digs I conducted in the fertile farmland around my house. I never found another arrowhead but I will never forget the spark of interest Sister Arthur ignited that afternoon so long ago. The idea that it was possible to unearth tools that gave clues about how people thought and lived thousands of years before you was the first evidence I had ever encountered that people really are all connected.

I’m 58 years old now and have recently become reacquainted with that budding archeologist who spent the afternoon with a “scientific nun” so many years ago. I recently lost my Mom, the first person to believe me worthy of such an important field trip (or maybe she just needed an afternoon alone!), and what I keep returning to is the importance of excavating the truth. Instead of artifacts, through yoga, I have begun searching for the truth about myself. Hip pain led me to yoga and fate or serendipity or both led me to the Yoga Teacher Training I have been involved in for 3 months. One truth about myself I live with everyday is my former addiction to alcohol and the shadow of lies from that always nearby.

To maintain sobriety is to commit to the daily discipline of pursuing the truth. Lies can be alluring hiding places but they always betray you when you want protection the most. Through yoga, I have been introduced to the brilliant writings of Rolf Gates (“Meditations from the Mat”). A few days ago, I read and reread Rolf Gates’ reflection on self-study (“svadhyaya” in Sanskrit, meaning self-study and one of the five sustaining practices in the practice of yoga).

“The unconscious wants truth. It ceases to speak to those who want something else more than the truth.” Adrienne Rich

“Self-study is an aspect of the practice of truthfulness……The good news is that truth is music to the soul. There is no end to the soul’s ability to bask in the presence of the truth. Millions of people in twelve-step programs sit around in church basements by the hour, listening to one another talk about themselves. It may sound boring, but in fact it is captivating, because the people in those rooms are telling the truth. It is captivating because spending time in the presence of others who are telling the truth inspires us to do the same.

To practice this aspect of self-study, examine the level of truthfulness in your workplace, family, and friendships. How much time do you spend in the presence of people who are telling the truth? How much do you spend with people who are not? What is it like when you hear the truth? What is it like when you do not? What fears keep you from being honest? Is it true that like attracts like? Does honesty beget honesty?”

Today, as I celebrate my ninth year of sobriety, my Google pics showed me this “funny” photo I took at a restaurant exactly 11 years ago, a time when I was deceiving myself about my truth. I thought this message about day drinking was funny. I thought by throwing my life away each day, little by little, I was really having fun and attracting the right people and things in my life. It makes me sick I once believed that throwing my life away in front of my children and husband was “funny.” There is nothing funny about not being able to live your truth.

As I have slowly excavated my truths and begun building a life of honesty and authenticity, I have observed the impact of this commitment on the people I love. It has had opposite effects: some people have thrived and grown and others have recoiled and shut me out. I’m never going back to not living my truth. If you had told me at the beginning of my sober journey 9 years ago that I would one day be working at my favorite organization and pursuing a yoga teaching certificate, I probably would have tried to protect myself with a “joke” about needing wine or margaritas or some other distraction to sustain me. I wouldn’t have been able to see myself living a happy, healthy, truthful life because to me that seemed so far out of reach in addiction. My familiar pain was more comforting than the effort excavating truth sounded like.

I have found truth in the eyes of the people with disabilities my workplace serves everyday, on my yoga mat and at home with my beautiful family. Most importantly, I wake up and go to sleep each day thanking the spiritual connection that sustains me for helping me to face the truth one day at a time. In addiction, I forgot to love that adorable little girl who was so curious about life and interested in excavating truths. She wasn’t worried about what anyone else was doing, thinking or saying because she was so completely enraptured by nurturing her own loves. I recently excavated this child and oh, what a fun adventure we are beginning.

Little Women

I received a Christmas gift early this year. On a chilly autumn afternoon, friends and family gathered to honor my parents’ final wishes: to spread their ashes together in a field near the home they raised my six older brothers and sisters and me in. You might think this would be a terribly sad occasion at first: the finality of releasing the only remaining physical representation of the 2 people you loved more than anyone in the world. Yet, as spiritual experiences often do, this setting and the people gathered blanketed my soul in peace and absolute assurance that my parents were pleased and all was well.

My children were there along with a dozen or so friends I had not seen in over 20 years, so it was a little surreal, for sure. This coming together of the past and the present for a brief moment, my heart wrenched with grief and love as it took in all the beauty around me. My childhood home, anchor of love and safety, visible in the background and the smells of home long tucked away in my sensory memory brought back to life for a brief moment to honor my Mom and Dad. 

Right before we spread their ashes, a larger gathering of old friends met in our hometown Parish Hall to break bread with our family and celebrate Mom’s life. Theresa, a dear farming friend, had lovingly displayed a cotton harvest themed quilt of my Mom’s in the entryway to our repast. I was expecting a warm reception, but this? Her gesture showed respect in the simplest and most profound way: the work of of my Mother’s hands, gifted to her years ago, represented a lifetime of love, friendship and memories. I had worried too many years had passed since our family lived in our hometown for our reappearance to make sense or feel authentic. Theresa’s warm welcome removed all doubt that my parents mattered to the people still living in our farming community.

The most surprising and delightful part of the experience was our unexpected invitation to enter our childhood home for a tour. To me, our home was a wondrous land of exploration, a kind of Narnia of my very own. As the youngest of seven, I spent many hours alone roaming the 3-acre yard surrounded by glorious fields in every season. It was there my imagination led me on many adventures which no doubt established the vibrant inner life I have always enjoyed and drawn from during difficult times. To be invited inside the home my parents so beautifully launched we children from was an early Christmas gift I eagerly accepted.

Walking around the old familiar rooms, the late autumn sun casting a warm golden light in the front room as I had always remembered, my two sisters and I briefly stepped back in time as the daughters of Dick and Rhetta, beloved community members of this town we left 43 years ago. It was in the kitchen that the real lesson of the day struck me. Standing at the kitchen island with their mother (the daughter of a childhood classmate of my brother’s) were 3 beautiful young women, faces beaming with kindness and curiosity about these strangers who had invaded their home on the Saturday afternoon after Thanksgiving. We thanked them for the gift of this glimpse into our childhood and learned a bit about each of the trio of sisters living not dissimilar lives from our own nearly half a century later. 

As I walked away, a little sad from leaving my parents’ ashes in their final resting place, it was the faces of these beautiful young sisters I could not stop thinking about. They, too, might someday return to this grand and abundantly verdant place to honor the family they once were. Because my sisters and I had the courage to seek comfort from a community we had long left, the warmth and eagerness of the friends who welcomed us back home briefly connected us to these 3 sisters gazing at us with their Mom in our old kitchen. We had asked for this kindness and they lovingly granted it. While my parents’ lives were over, our story and connection to this beautiful place and these exquisitely kind people was not. I like a story with potential for a sequel – it must be the little country girl in me!

What’s Enough?

As December approaches, I find my heart oddly full in spite of this year’s losses.  I offer you, friends, this brilliant reflection on the power of presence and the gifts of a well loved (not judged) mind.  Happy Holidays.

 

Source: What’s Enough?

The Lost Traveler and her Wahine

My eye has been twitching and hip hurting since early August, but I had my “VBFQ” (very busy fourth quarter – 4 fun trips in a row) to look forward to, so I ignored what my body was telling me.  Then my 90-year-old Mom passed away gently in her sleep. Although her passing wasn’t exactly unexpected, it’s true that nothing prepares you once you become an orphan in this world.

“For in grief, nothing ‘stays put.’ One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs.  Round and round.  Everything repeats.  Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often – will it be for always? – how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, ‘I never realized my loss till this moment?’ The same leg is cut off time after time.”

C. S. Lewis, “A Grief Observed”

This loop of forgetting then surrendering to the sudden and shattering memory of what has happened – the loss of my Mother – is my current existence.  I don’t know if this is normal, but several times a day, with no warning, I will experience what feels like a punch in the gut from Grief, and I will utter, “Mommy!” like I did as a child to summon her comfort.  The moment doesn’t last more than a few seconds – and I am able to return to whatever activity I was doing without much difficulty – but C. S. Lewis is right – “the death of a beloved is an amputation.”  I have to learn to walk in this world anew without her.

A few things really help soothe this pain.  1.  Puppy hugs (I recently adopted a new puppy whose presence in my home is like a steady source of dopamine); 2. A healthy routine (e.g., boring adherence to the basics:  enough rest, water, exercise, sunshine, good nutrition, conversations with family); 3.  Old friends – the ones I grew up with who knew my Mother best. Hearing kind words about my Mom and retelling familiar stories from my early days is of great comfort. Simply being in the presence of my oldest friends, I have found to be enormously healing.  

I am lucky to have a few such friends I have known since birth.  And each one reached out to me in my pain immediately to offer comfort, kindness and reminders of the great person my Mom was.   By sheer coincidence (or maybe not?), my oldest friend, Missy, and I had plans to spend a week together this Fall on her island paradise, Maui.  Missy gave me a chance to opt out of our plans until “a better time.”  It really felt like the perfect time to be in her presence.  After all, our Mothers were close friends and our Fathers were the very best of friends.  Between our 2 families there were 15 children, and we all grew up together.  Lots of comfort and familiarity awaited me. Exactly one month after losing Mom, I boarded a plane and headed off to the unknown.  I am not a good traveler nor am I particularly curious about “unexplored” places.  Wanderlust is not something that drives me.  But quiet companionship and a few reminders of who I really am, during this time when I feel so lost, is definitely what drove me to pack my bags and visit Missy.

When I arrived, she was hiding behind a wall with a fresh plumeria lei to welcome me.  I later learned the plumeria flower represents birth, love, spring and new beginnings.  In Buddhist culture, the plumeria represents immortality, because the tree will bloom even if it is uprooted.  Immediately, I felt like it had been the right decision to seek adventure with my old friend instead of staying home and hiding under the covers like I wanted. This could be a time of new birth. She kept using this Hawaiian word, “Wahine,” which literally translates to woman.  I learned it can also be a term of endearment for one’s closest female friends.


Every morning began with at least two hours of relaxing outside on her terrace overlooking a sumptuous garden with the sea in the background. In the background, the sounds of tropical birds I have never heard before, beckoning old friends to start the day in one another’s company, just enjoying the moment.  That’s what I enjoyed and appreciated most about our time together – there was no “daily agenda,” it was as slow-paced and relaxed as could be.  I knew there were many things on the island I would not venture out to see and this was fine with me.  I needed to move slowly, and Missy understood this. On those quiet early mornings happily tucked into her backyard paradise, my oldest friend Missy reminded me of several things and thus helped me heal the wounds broken open by Mom’s passing.  

In no particular order, here are the things my “Wahine” (Hawaiian for woman/friend) helped me to see and in her way re-ignited my spark for life:

I look great in red lipstick – Missy was surprised to see a more “subdued” look after years of sporting the brightest red lipstick I could find. When I told her several makeup artists scolded me due to it’s “aging effect,” she said that was bulls*** and I should go back to what I love (so I have);

I will publish my writing one day – One of her favorite publications has been on my “most wanted” list for years – she’s confident she’ll see my name in it one day;

No matter how broken I believe the world is today, there are many things in my life worth celebrating – a great family, health, sobriety, and friendships that have lasted decades for starters;

I am not alone in my sobriety (nothing tests your sobriety like loss – my dog of 11 years passed 12 days after Mom) – Missy decided before I even arrived to practice “Sober October” – more than anything else, THIS is what brought me to tears. Not that I am close to a relapse after everything that has happened. It simply felt like a major show of support and solidarity when my oldest friend on this earth quietly decided to join me sans alcohol for a bit.

The timing of the Universe can be perplexing and mysterious, especially when one feels like She is lobbing pain on top of pain for no reason.  It felt so good to surrender to the cosmic invitation to meet my old friend in my pain, on her beautiful island, and just sit quietly together drinking coffee for several days.  My pain subsided a little and our friendship grew a lot. It turns out I  traveled 4,000 miles to feel like I was right at home. Thank you, Wahine, for the gift of your time and presence when I needed it most.

In Gratitude for My Brave Momma

My Mom was a character. Funny, outspoken, warm and talented in many ways. You never forgot her even if you met her only briefly. There are many adjectives you could use to describe her. She raised me so I consider myself somewhat experienced in my ability to choose the adjective that best describes her: Brave. She faced adversity with courage, dignity and humor. And she wasn’t a quitter, either. She had a mental toughness I can only aspire to. This chilly Fall morning, a mere 8 weeks after her passing, I miss her so terribly but am thankful to have a deep well of experiences from which to draw upon her many acts of bravery.

This photo, for example, represents my first inkling that I had a brave Momma. It is the morning of my 8th grade graduation and it had been a hard year for our family. Only 46 and seeing the completion of her child-raising years, Mom convinced Dad to uproot from our family farm in Southern Missouri and relocate to St. Louis, Missouri, where my sister and I would attend one of the state’s highest ranked private Catholic secondary schools and live at home. This was brave on many fronts. Mom was ready to enjoy her second act exploring her personal interests. She was getting restless on the farm and wanted the rest of her life to have meaning. Reluctantly, my Dad agreed and we sold our beautiful home in the middle of a soybean field and headed to the big city. While Mom definitely had the class, experience and social skills to navigate our family through this vastly foreign terrain, what mattered most was her bravery, because there were many moments when it all just seemed too difficult for many us.

I didn’t realize this 13 years ago, but I applied the many things I learned watching Mom through those years to my own family when we made a similar move from the country to the city. I wanted to help my children achieve their own sense of personal belonging in a new place without losing their identity as my Mom had helped me do 40 years earlier. As a parent, when you change from having the home that kids flocked to during the summer and on weekends to adapting to the crazy intense competitive “helicopter parenting” in the city, the pressure can bring you to your knees. My Mom stayed strong and never lost herself during those wild teenage years of mine in the big city. While I tried to emulate her in my own experience, I definitely got lost many times because I’m not as brave as she. But I always had the gift of her example to draw upon.

As Mom grew older, she faced frightening health challenges that ultimately rendered her bedridden. The brave and strong woman who always led the way in our family was suddenly vulnerable and dependent on others for care. It was almost too painful to acknowledge at times. Especially as I watched the changes from a distance, raising my own family and charting my own “second act” as she had so gracefully done decades before. Mom managed the bedridden decade with dignity, grace and enormous bravery. Only last year, as her 90th birthday approached and she was putting her life in perspective, she said to me, “This is my life and I have to live it.” Acceptance is the ultimate form of bravery. She showed all of us that strength literally means submitting to one’s circumstances and making the best of what you have. Mom had the ability to use her mind as a place to escape to and create her reality. During times when other people could not see a path forward for themselves, my Mother declared to me she intended to live the life she had been given. I am still overwhelmed with love and admiration.

The last time I entered Mom’s beautiful pink room, instead of finding her there, big blue eyes and soothing voice, happy to see me, I found a single red rose where she used to lay. The red rose symbolizes beauty, love and courage. It perfectly represented my Mom. Her example of bravery sustains me. She saw her journey, rife with challenges, through to completion, and I am most humbled and grateful. Stepping forward into my last decades, I carry my Mom with me, and hopefully more than a little of her feisty spirit. She showed me that I can face anything. I only wish I didn’t have to do it without her.

As my six siblings and I prepare to bid farewell to both our parents back on the family farm soon, I will be thinking of their strength and love. And when I feel sad, I’ll play my Mom’s favorite love song, Rod Stewart’s “You’re in my Heart,” and think of her dancing in her kitchen. I’ll remember she will be in my heart and in my soul, and hopefully she tucked in a little bravery.

Third Act

We’re all familiar with what happens in the third act of a really good mystery: the villain dies and the good guy is vindicated, and all is set right for the rest of eternity. It’s in this critical third act there is a small but very vibrant window of opportunity to cash in a lifetime’s collection of choices – and float effortlessly towards the sunset.

If we’re lucky, the third act is full of people we love and health to begin new adventures. The third act can be inspiring and intentional if luck allows us freedom from obligations we have honored in act two. This third act my husband and I begin today will be interesting, to say the least, because we are so very different. He is a careful, thoughtful planner. I am free-spirited. He has thought about “tomorrow” long before it occurred to me it was even happening. He even recently referred to me as a “kamikaze pilot”!

The one thing that we share that I suspect will be our third act glue? We both love surprises. I have driven professors and bosses to the brink of insanity with my “wild unpredictability.” My husband, though not personally unpredictable, cherishes and savors a surprise more than any human I know. So that will be our meeting place in this third act: finding joy together in the remaining mysteries life offers.

I have observed so many versions of third acts that I hope I won’t waste mine overthinking things. I hope I will answer whatever calls that come for joy, playfulness, creativity and meaning. I hope I don’t become “cemented” to my chair and routine. This is the challenge of maintaining that kamizaze spirit – the word translates in Japanese to “Divine Wind.” I’m here for it.

I forgot to mention magic. Hoping for lots more third act magic. For now, I am content sipping coffee and getting lost in the magical lights my “careful planner” unexpectedly sprang for.

Between my finger

And my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney