Tag Archives: writing

Fertilizer

Meet “Bernadette,” my indoor Hibiscus that wildly thrived during our hot midwestern summer on my patio. She has a sister outdoors but we simply don’t have enough room to bring her in. My husband helped me choose which outdoor plant gets a chance to thrive indoors this winter based on two simple things: our indoor space availability (exactly ONE north-facing window) and our combined capacity to haul it in. You see, our big, beefy, son, Mario, moved to Colorado to begin his adult life one year ago today, leaving Mom and Dad behind to painstakingly manage the few “bulky projects” on our own on the rare occasions we both have the will and the strength.

I have many friends who are master gardeners. They talk to me about “cutting back” and “dividing” and “fertilizing” and “overwintering” green things as if I somehow share this common language and love for growing things with them. To be honest, I feel lucky beyond measure any time a plant like my blooming hibiscus comes along and decides (completely independently of anything I do) to grow alot and hang in there with me for more than one season. When this happens, my heart returns to a core memory of being a child in 4-H and growing a sunflower in a coffee can as a “summer project.” That was a wondrous thing of beauty and sheer delight, watching MY seed grow daily before my eyes and blossom into a very large, geniune sunflower. I wish I had a photo but I will never forget that unique feeling of love, accomplishment and satisfaction. That sunflower may have been the first thing in my young life (besides a barn kitten) I invested a part of myself in with the hope that would be enough to nurture and sustain it.

“The Little Prince” reminds me of the feeling this season of life – new empty nest, adult children (and new son in law), aging body, long term marriage – actually means: those relationships and saplings I have spent years “tending to” are significant, thriving and emanating love BECAUSE of the time I have spent “fertilizing” them. This is the proper measurement of a “life well lived.”

I’m grateful my hibiscus reminded me of this at this particular moment in time. It’s tempting at age 60, after a life of devotion to my home and family, to look at what is left – children living independently across the country – as “nothing” when the opposite is true: it reflects the result of me pouring all that I had and all that I was into the life that we lived for a brief time. I fertilized my family very well.

Not only that, I did it with a hidden disability that did not have a name until earlier this year – ADHD. What that means to an adult woman is very different than the stereotypical “hyperactive gradeschool boy who cannot sit still in class” we have learned about. I have survived the challenges of adult life, relationships, motherhood and employment with an underfunctioning prefrontal cortex (the executive function command center of the brain) and an overfunctioning amygdala (the “fight or flight”/hypervigilant, big emotional response part of the brain meant to protect us from predators). It’s been ALOT, a journey riddled with many misunderstood challenges and mishaps because girls with ADHD (myself included) learn to mask their differences by mimicking “normal” behavior and responses of neurotypical peers. It means I am tired from a lifetime of pretending to be “normal” and hiding the shame of that “big secret” daily. I hid in alcohol (which didn’t work much). I hid in plain sight to such a degree that even the people closest to me responded in utter dismay: “You can’t POSSIBLY have ADHD because you have been able to manage your life so well.” On the surface!

This year, I also became a huge fan of amaryllis bulbs that thrive inside a wax casing – all they need is sunlight (and love, I would argue) to grow. I gave several away as gifts and made sure we had one in the kitchen for Christmas and Easter. Then by summer I became enamored with my patio hibiscus. As this year of massive transitions draws to a close, I recognize now the significance of these small living things I have nurtured during a time I believed I was losing so much. I woke up many mornings thinking of the word “Drifting” – both captivating and horrifying, for it seemed to me I could spend the next 30 years doing just that. And I need a new purpose.

I spent alot of time with an old friend early this fall in her community garden, helping her tend to the beautiful summer squash, tomatoes and eggplants she had been tending all summer. The reconnection with my friend after first meeting her when I was just 23 – now, I am 60 and she is 79- has been reviving and comforting to me in ways I haven’t been able to articulate. In late August, right after my daughter’s wedding, together we celebrated a mutual friend’s 100th birthday. Imagine the fertilizer from life our friend has required to reach her ripe age – and, in turn, the life-giving, awe-inspiring fertilizer her energy and spirit continue to give to those lucky enough to know and love her. It is with deep appreciation and recognition of the gift of a long life and memory of past periods of growth and learning I embrace this opportunity to reconnect with Myra and Rosemary, two of my pillars of inspiration throughout my adult life. It is an honor to be considered worthy to share time with them now. And the lessons from their fertile lives and minds continue to nurture me.

The heart and spirit are always “tending to” something that spurs us onward, it’s just not always obvious in the moment. My very happy hibiscus reminded me this morning I have been “living” when I thought I was “drifting” this year all along. And that whatever modest nurturing I think I have to offer has been enough to support a long marriage, two beautifully thriving adult children, and now one happy little hibiscus in my dining room named Bernadette.

The Gift My Mom Held

Recently I had coffee with my friend who has had a few more years of experience as a retired empty nester than me. I knew her, sort of, many years ago because our husbands ran together. We recently became reacquainted because our husbands now lunch together in a club that meets weekly. She makes me laugh and, without intending to, gives me something interesting to think about in between our coffees. She’s very big sisterly, which is comfortable and familiar to me, as I have four natural big sisters.

She’s a huge supporter of my writing, which I have done very little of lately. I sort of did a detour to figure out some lingering post-menopausal symptoms, leading me to a very interesting discovery: I have “Mixed type” ADHD, which means I can be either hyperactive or inattentive at times. It turns out our hormones have an enormous influence over our brain’s ability to regulate dopamine – the motivation “juice” that also provides support with impulsivity, emotional and sensory regulation and executive function (planning, focus, memory and task completion). To learn at age 60 that my brain has been operating without the ability to regulate dopamine – the “adult magic sauce” we all need to appear adultlike – has been shattering and empowering at the same time. The great news is I am on a good medication that is helping me alot while I learn as much about the neurodivergent female brain from literature and various chat groups of other “late life diagnosis” people.

I am suddenly discovering the motivation to do one of the things my friend has suggested: go digging through my boxes of memories and mine them for writing project ideas. Today, I opened the attic door and picked a box to go through. At the top of the box was an envelope labeled in my Mom’s handwriting :” “Joan – very special.” Inside are dozens of hand and typewritten stories and plays I began writing at age 9. Today I am going to share the first one I grabbed because, if I must say so myself, I am utterly gobsmacked by the cleverness and fluency of this little story, probably written in 1976 when I was ten. Here goes:

The Talking Horse

One night I was listening to Mom tell me a story about a talking horse “Good night” said Mom. “Good night” I said. Mom went out of the room and closed the door. Just then I saw something climbing up on my window sill and it was a horse.

“Hello” said the horse.

“Hello” I said. I was shocked that the horse could talk.

“My name is Socks.” “Well, my name is Lynda.”

“Hi Lynda” said Socks.

“Hi Socks” said Lynda. “What did you come for?” I asked.

“I have a problem and I need someone to solve it” said Socks.

‘What is your problem Socks?” I wanted to know.

“Well this might sound silly” Socks started “but I want to be king of the jungle but lion won’t let me.”
“Who came up with this idea?” I asked.

“Well you see I go to Horses’ Lib” said Socks, “and we decided that horses had a right to be king of the jungle so they voted for me and I asked lion if he would please give up his job and he said no.”

Screenshot

“I get it” said Lynda “you want me to go to the jungle with you and you want me to ask the lion if you can be king of the jungle.”

“That’s right” said Socks.

So the two of them went to the jungle. When they got to the jungle Socks led Lynda the way to lion’s house. Lynda started to go in.

“Good luck” said Socks.

“Hello” Lynda said in a nice voice.

The lion looked up and said “What do you want? Go away.”

“But wait” Lynda said. “It will only take me a minute to ask you if Socks can be king of the jungle.”

“No” the lion said meanly and he got so angry that he started packing his clothes, and he came out of his house with a big suitcase and said “I’m moving to Boston.”

So Socks got to be king of the jungle after all.

The End.

I mean, how could I not publish this childhood treasure immediately? Stay tuned for more. I’m so grateful to my Momma for keeping my little junior writing projects all together in one place. It’s a beautiful Mother’s Day gift she has given to me from heaven.

I’m 60. My People are my Metric

This past weekend, Valentine’s Day came and went but this year there is “something extra” to celebrate: contentment. Contentment is a place available to anyone yet so often missed in our human desire to achieve “just one more goal.” Simply stated, my husband’s words in this year’s Valentine capture the essence: “I’m only where I am in this sweet time of life because of you.” If this is not what every life partner would love to hear I don’t know what is. Obviously, together we navigated to our current state of contentment.

There have been years of the journey that felt like I was standing still while my family steadily moved outward into the world. I felt resentment and weathered a constant internal dialogue wrongly asserting I had no ambition, was not worth much since my resume and LinkedIn were a bit of a hot mess. At 60, I clearly see I chose a life without metrics of success: no big paycheck, bonus, awards, promotions, certifications or other external markers of success and advancement. I have invested every year of this sweet life in creating a harmonious home. I said it and wrote it and lived it – call me a 1950’s housewife if you wish. I’m humbled by and proud of my life choices and I think there are two additional souls wandering this Earth who are living to their fullest capacity because I spent years quietly and steadfastly standing still while they grew.

In the past 6 months, I have watched my children soar in adulthood, both confidently making choices that align with their wishes and values. There has been grief for me, unquestionably, and terrible fear that the best part of my life has ended. I’m getting support to chart the next chapter for myself but oh my, this beautiful time demands a pause to soak in and enjoy its full meaning.

It is not truthful that, because I have no career to point to, I have wasted any time. I got sober in my fifties, a hard won battle that I openly let my family witness (and support). This is not nothing! My children learned by watching my journey to sustained sobriety that sometimes people need to be vulnerable in order to grow. Setbacks are merely “repositioning points” in life and from anywhere you can choose to move forward. What’s important is the love we discover, nurture, embrace and share. And yes, it’s messy sometimes. I really hope my life has modeled “progress over perfection” for my loved ones. It takes courage to show discomfort and fear and this gets no easier, I am learning, as we age.

So, hello 60, it is wonderful to meet you. To arrive at this place with contentment is the greatest joy imaginable. My people will continue to be my metrics of success – but I plan to do a little less “standing still” this decade!

The Distance Between True Friends

Yesterday I had coffee with a friend I met at one of my dozen or so jobs I have had in the past decade. We had not seen one another since my long period of sadness, loss and grief. 90 minutes after spending time in Stephanie’s company, I felt like my old self again! The striking similarities between our menopausal experiences and ultimate arrival at the liberating “I do not care anymore” stage of womanhood made me feel more connected to life than I have in months. Literally, Stephanie, you brought me back to life! That’s the wonderful thing about friendship: to find in another person a real sense of comfort and familiarity that lasts over time is the greatest gift.

This morning, still bolstered by the sisterhood of laughing with Stephanie, I am reminded of my special friends in the pediatric rehabilitation program I worked in for a couple of years. “B,” with his sweet and dedicated Occupational Therapist, worked on this drawing depicting the distance between himself and me. The day they gave this to me I knew I would laminate it and keep it forever. Those friendships with children with disabilities and their caregivers/therapists are among the most sacred I have ever known in my life. I think I became delighted with “B” from day one because he looked me soulfully in the eyes and always made it clear he was completely contented just to be near me. No distance between us.

I have realized that I am one of those “Gen X” girls with ADHD who was never diagnosed. I have stumbled through life feeling ashamed of my lack of organizational and time management skills, and have often felt humiliatingly confused by “hidden cues” people give in the social-emotional realm. For example, I had a friend I thought I connected with beautifully, only to discover she had been “growing tired of” me for months and ultimately took to her social media to proudly declare to her followers that she had recently “downgraded someone from friend to acquaintance” without ever speaking to them (ME!). I reeled from confusion, shame, anger and utter disbelief from this experience for more than a year. Because I have ADHD, I do not let go of things as easily as “neurotypicals” so this hurt cut me deeply in ways that surprised me. After practicing a lot of lovingkindness (from the great meditation teacher Sharon Salzberg), I am learning to separate experiences from my feelings about them and thereby release shame I often feel for “not getting the point” as soon as neurotypical people!

Then there is sweet “B” and darling Stephanie who validated every experience we talked about over coffee. I have felt so alone in the middle believing there were no friends who would be willing to meet me there. “B” even graphically depicted his willingness to meet me all the way at my doorstep. And no “complicated cues” or backstabbing social media posts, just presence and contented kinship. “B” could teach a lot of people about friendship, and maybe this is the writing opportunity I have been looking for.

For now, I am grateful for the moments of authentic recognition and respect I share with my friends. As far as my “downgraded acquaintance status,” as stinging as those words were spoken by someone I cared for and trusted, I am happy to report that you can downgrade me, baby, but you will never find me downcast. I am too busy laughing with “B,” Stephanie and the handful of kind souls in my life. Friends are a blessing to enjoy, not a puzzle or conundrum to sort out.

Love, my beautiful little undiagnosed but lovable ADHD heart

Decisions, Devotion and Destiny

Today marks two years since my Mom passed away. I still hear her voice but her singularly calming, practical presence is missing. Her bluntly honest remarks often caught people off guard or made them laugh (if not a little bit uncomfortably). I don’t know too many people who are both blunt and smart. Generally, I just feel disappointed with the world and miss Mom especially because her confidence and clear communication was always one thing I knew I could rely on in this world.

I have become permanently impatient with people who are reluctant to make decisions – or more precisely – accept responsibility for making them, when it seems like such an important time to respond to the urgency in our world. The last 3 jobs I have held all curiously presented the same set of frustrations: people “in charge” who wanted authority but either had no desire, impetus or wisdom to exercise their authority. I would bring important issues to leaders that impacted my day to day (and would result in wasting resources if left spinning indecisively) only to be pushed off for some future date when making a decision would become clearer for them. What? I remember thinking, “Dude, you are literally being PAID to make DECISIONS. Like, that’s your JOB!” as I walked away in frustration. But the universe continued to present this frustrating set of circumstances to me over a period of several years in jobs I grew to strongly dislike – so there must be a good reason, eh?

I have concluded that this lesson repeatedly appeared in my work life because there was something else I needed to be doing. Primarily, listening to my own voice and cultivating the “meaning” that I found so disappointingly missing elsewhere – within myself. As a woman approaching 60, it’s fair to say I have spent two decades devoted to my family. Not just the person who made sure tasks were completed – but real, geniune, from the heart devotion – the kind you feel towards your first love. As an empty nester, I’m still very devoted to children. On this rainy morning of the anniversary of my Mom’s death, I just returned from delivering a birthday package and cake from Birthday Connections to a child in need who currently lives in a domestic violence shelter. I feel really good about having the privilege to be in a place in my life where I can play a small role in uplifting another person and be true to something I feel devoted to in my heart. I think Gen Z’ers would call this “Alignment.”

A new friend of mine surprised me yesterday with a “Yahrzeit” candle – a memorial candle in the Hebrew tradition to light on the date of a loved one’s passing and keep lit for 24 hours of remembering, honoring the deceased, performing acts of charity in their memory, etc. I had already intentionally chosen to volunteer today for Birthday Connections as a way to honor my Mom, who successfully nurtured and raised seven children. But the Universe really wanted me to “get” this lesson, so my friend Shelly, who has experienced much loss, generously opened her heart and gifted me this beautiful and gentle tradition. I am so grateful and deeply comforted by her kind act. In the Christian tradition, lighting a candle is a form of “devotion” – recognizing the sacred in another person and memorializing their goodness through prayer and remembrance. It isn’t even noon yet and already I can say I have fulfilled the mission of this day – and will spend the next several hours in gratitude and restful contemplation.

We are all born to discover our unique gifts. As Ralph Waldo Emerson beautifully writes in an essay:

“Rings and jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me. Therefore the poet brings his poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; the miner, a stone; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her own sewing.”

The gift of intentionally (decisively) honoring my Mom’s memory today and practicing devotion in her memory by supporting a local child in need brings me to my final thought – my destiny. I honestly am starting to believe that my destiny in life is to be a “feeler of big feelings” and conduit for people who may not recognize or articulate their own. In other words, I’m the uninhibited person in the room who will say something awkward that is maybe cringe but also funny – and potentially touches another person’s heart so that healing can begin. So far, I have been fortunate to be able to recognize mostly good things from the painful experiences I have had in life. And without fail, honest and good-hearted people have met me along the way to help me make sense of recent losses and pain.

I will conclude with a thought about recovery. Lately I have been thinking that I have not been very “emotionally sober,” even though I do not drink alcohol anymore to survive big feelings. There have been a couple of major losses in a short period of time in my life and many days, I find myself “growling” at the world instead of living in gratitude and bowing in reverence towards my good fortune. This is why I am considering going back to a 12-step recovery program and actively working the steps of AA. An old friend has recently reappeared in my life and kindly offered to accompany me as I start this journey over – in search of emotional sobriety. Rolf Gates, a brilliant yoga instructor and recovery writer, writes in his “Daily Reflections on Addiction, Yoga, and Getting Well”:

“Much of early recovery was like finding the bodies trapped in the snow after an avalanche. Frozen in their last moments – new boots, worn parkas, bits of scarf. My sadness was overwhelming. My 12-step sponsor, Henry, knew this about me. He was kind to my sorrow. There were no answers for what broke my heart. There was no getting any of it back….

….Henry would look at some broken part of my life, lift an eyebrow, and drawl, “what is was like.” We would laugh until tears came to our eyes at what it was like and would be no more.

Reflection:

Life has put people in your life who have not been afraid of your sadness. Thank them with your heart. Maybe thank them in person. Who has helped you laugh the laugh of freedom?”

The people who are appearing in my life who are not afraid of my sadness are helping me heal and discover new ways to use parts I have previously discarded and labeled “broken.” To me, this is a destiny worth fighting for and enjoying.

Noticing Season

This week began with a fantastic thunderstorm, with an especially gorgeous prelude of rumbling from the heavens, strong enough to awaken my son who was visiting from college. I excitedly went to the front porch to try to capture the majesty of the darkening sky amid the tall oak trees that line my street. A couple of hours later, my husband sent me this beautifully captured photo from his office overlooking a scene from our city awash in the storm and these words: “Enjoying my view in my descent.” Later our son remarked, “Dad is using that word alot these days – ‘descent.'” After 40 years of devoting himself to practicing law with a brief detour managing health care practices, the Dad my kids have seen suiting up for work day in and day out their entire lives is soon retiring (“descending”) and planning on finding ways to occupy himself from home. My hunch is, to everyone’s delight, we will all see much more of the guy who captures beautiful photos in the near future.

Suddenly, it hit me what season this is and many of the thoughts and feelings that have been roiling in my head and heart for months began to take shape. Each in our own way, my husband and I have spent the last 2 decades noticing things and anticipating a time when life slowed down long enough to make sense of what we’ve noticed. With retirement a mere several weeks on the horizon for Mike, that day is at last here. And because honoring my deepest desire to find time and space to write has always been a part of his plan (though I did not take notice of it until recently), I, too, have embarked on a sweet season of noticing. This time I hope to capture a little of what I notice before it slips back into oblivion.

Our story began with noticing, one early Fall morning in 1994, when each of us captured a poem written in chalk along the path of a lovely park we visited together. We mailed the poem to one another on the same day! Then life began and we got busy, absorbed in the work of making a living and a life for our children. I often felt frustrated at my limited ability to capture the things I noticed while raising our kids. I hope, in this season of noticing I feel beginning, I am able to recall the most poignant scenes and moments from their childhood.

Instead of writing while I was raising the children, I think I wound up just trying to live creatively and with an open heart. Oddly enough, this morning I came upon the perfect description:

The process of going deep within to access and then express the truth we find is the greatest of creative endeavors, whether it is formally recognized as art or not. Sharon Salzberg

My greatest hope is that my husband and I have raised 2 people who are unafraid to make time in their daily lives to notice and experience the fullness, richness and complexity embodied in all of the paths life’s journey will take them. Early in my High School education, I experienced a summer program at St. Louis University entitled, “The Academy of the Humanities.” I loved it. It was during this course that the instructor, Art Carle, introduced us to Socrates and his timeless wisdom, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” As I enter this season of noticing, with space to finally pour onto the page the memories that have made my life worth living, one thought keeps bubbling up to the surface: noticing is the purest form of loving.

Making space in my life for noticing not only invites creativity and playfulness, it sometimes inevitably will yield sadness. Author Susan Cain writes, “the mother of sadness is compassion.” To give someone the gift of being seen is to honor another’s humanity. Susan Cain argues in her book, “Bittersweet,” that the willingness to see sadness and be with another in this state leads to compassion, which can connect us all. Indeed, as my husband and I approach this season of noticing together, our thousands of shared memories raising 2 amazing children together can be very bittersweet. It hurts to think very long about that precious time being over and to notice my adult children entering their busiest seasons of life, just as their Dad and I are beginning to slow down and notice more. Like my own parents before me, my husband and I have become the “memory holders” for our children of their early lives. If we are blessed with grandchildren, I imagine we will enjoy sharing with them many colorful stories about their Mom and Dad growing up and these stories will serve as family glue, keeping us connected over time.

I am never more aware of time than when I visit my 90-year-old mother. This is my favorite photo of my parents from 24 summers ago. I was visiting home with my 4-month-old baby girl, and we all attended a wedding together. It was a very happy occasion, forever embedded in my memory bank. As the years go by, this moment increasingly feels like just a tiny “blip” on an expanding canvas of things to notice about life. But I won’t let that happen. When I look at this photo today, just shy of the ages my parents are in it, I am thankful for the life they gave me and the precious gift of this season of noticing. I recently visited my Mom who doesn’t remember or notice very much any longer. I carry sadness in my heart that never subsides, whether I see her in person or not. I was certain this last visit really had not made an impression on her, she seemed so out of it. And, by this stage of her life, those visits are more about me than her, if I am being honest. My sister told me something the day after I last saw Mom, however, that affirmed for me my Mom will always be the first holder of my heart and official “noticer” in my life. Mom told my sister after our visit, “I like Joan’s big smile.” That enormous and beautiful expression from my Mom is more than enough to sustain me for this new journey forward, into the noticing season.