I'm a writer and musician, mother and wife, journalist and memoirist, radio producer and flute teacher. I'm deeply spiritual, yet I don't follow one religion or belong to any houses of worship, though I have in the past. I walk daily with my Higher Power, grateful that the scared little girl I once was, the self-denigrating teenager, and deeply depressed young mother I have been have all morphed into the wonderful aging woman I am today.
When I take out frustrations on my husband, I make amends. After telling my husband I was closing my door to write, I made a detour into the laundry room. My husband called out something to me from the kitchen. I’m hard of hearing without my hearing aids, which I hadn’t put in yet, and besides, we have agreed not to shout from other parts of the house. I turned around and went back into the kitchen with false patience to ask him to repeat himself.
Could I please check the dryer before I started writing? I glared at him. “I’m doing that now,” I said, and marched back to the laundry room. Why was I being so unpleasant?
I hated that I was being unkind
After checking my clothes, which were still a tad damp, I started back down the hall, an apology on my lips, but passed the kitchen where he was painting one small section of the wall over the stove and under the cupboards and instead went straight to the antique clock in the living room to wind and reset it. I thought of re-passing the kitchen without saying anything, but hated how sour I was feeling, hated that I was being unkind.
I retraced my steps and stood at the kitchen entrance.
“I’m sorry I glared at you. I’m just frustrated with myself and I’m taking it out on you.”
He paused his paint brush and looked at me with nothing but compassion. “What are you frustrated about?”
“Oh, not taking life on life’s terms; feeling dissatisfied with my life just because what if I misinterpreted that angel reading that suggested I write my life story. And because it’s so hard being a writer. There are millions of writers out there all of us looking for readers.”
My husband is my best friend. I shouldn’t treat him so poorly, but sometimes I do.
“But you love writing,” my husband said. “Why not do it just because you love to?”
He’s right, of course, and I told him so.
We hugged. “You can have the dryer now,” I said. “My clothes are probably dry.”
“Thanks for saying something,” he said as I was halfway down the hall.
My husband is my best friend. I shouldn’t treat him so poorly, but sometimes I do, and then I make amends. We’ve been married for over forty years. Something about our relationship must be working. I think it’s mutual honesty, vulnerability, and saying “I’m sorry,” when we’ve been unkind that makes the difference.
My son came for Christmas this year. We sat on the front stoop in the warm sunshine (I live in Asheville, NC). I don’t remember how we got onto the topic of transgender women on sports teams. I said I thought it was unfair to the biological cis women on the team because a transgender woman was naturally stronger than a cis woman and placed any opposing team without a transgender woman at a disadvantage.
He said, “How about the basketball player Yao Ming who’s unusually tall? Is that unfair to other teams?”
“No,” I said.
“How is that any different from a trans woman being stronger than a biological woman?”
Uneven abilities among team members is common
I hadn’t thought of that. There are plenty examples of uneven abilities among same biologically gendered team members. Someone might be bigger and stronger than another team member. Just look at football. Defensive linemen are big heavy guys unlike the lighter physiques of quarter backs. Is that unfair? No, of course not. So how is a transgender woman being stronger than a cis woman any different my son wanted to know?
I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t.
Then we talked about J.K. Rowling and her beliefs regarding gender. I admitted I sympathized with her statement that a trans woman isn’t a woman biologically because she doesn’t have a uterus and can’t get pregnant. Same with a trans man. He can’t impregnate anyone.
“But does that make her any less a woman?” my son wanted to know.
“You know the character in the animated film WALL-E? What gender is that robot?” he asked.
“Male.”
“Right, and he has a girlfriend who you would call female, but do either of them have genitals?”
“Oh,” I said. “Right. No.”
In other words, gender identity has nothing to do with genitals. Not having a uterus or penis doesn’t make you any less female or male.
Why conflate violence and self-protection with masculinity?
That conversation made me reconsider a book review I’d written about a transgender woman. In the book she resorts to violence to protect herself and her staff. Then, a transgender man suddenly becomes self-confident once he commits murder. In my review I wrote “So, violence makes the man?” My son said no. It worked for those two characters in the book. But why conflate violence and self-protection with masculinity? Who says women can’t be strong and protect themselves?
It was a mind-altering conversation I was grateful to have, especially with my son who I hadn’t seen in person for a year and a half. It made me realize how important getting together in person more often with him is to say nothing of appreciating more deeply gender identity. That someone would be willing to change their body to conform with who they are as a person despite the prejudice out there–that’s a strong conviction. It doesn’t put any team at an advantage or disadvantage.
I vowed to visit my son sooner next year. Thanks for having that conversation with me, Ian. I love you.
Yesterday while Christmas shopping, I ignored the beggars and gave to the buskers. I’m not proud. It was a cool, overcast gray day. After parking the car, I started walking uphill on Lexington. Asheville is a crumbly old town with lots of hippie-type shops with incense pouring out the doors.
I looked across the street and saw the hemp shop that sells the muscle relaxer salve I’d run out of was open. Usually my chiropractor sells it, but she’s been out of it, saying this shop where she got it wasn’t answering her calls. She had told me where the shop was, so I went over there after my appointment one day, but a sign on the glass door written in soap said they were closed. I called the shop and left a message but heard from no one. So, when I looked across the street, saw the shop sign saying they were open, I decided to investigate.
Normally I would never enter such a shady place.
Normally I would never enter such a shady place. The place was dim and dark and run down. A faded blue couch sat against one wall with a ratty sweatshirt thrown over one arm. Stacks of cardboard boxes sat behind the counter. A black and white cat greeted me, as did the proprietor, a young, scruffy looking man with chin-length curly hair and beard and wearing a winter wool cap. His clothes were disheveled. I wondered if he and his cat were both stoned. But he was polite and very helpful.
The salve I was looking for sat on the counter along with a joint compound that I wondered whether might be even better for my arthritis. The jars were $50 each. He said if I bought two I’d get a discount and pay just $80. I spied a small stick tube of calming and relaxing CBD ointment for $20 and bought it for my son to rub on his temples and the back of his neck. I could imagine him doing this at work.
He had stopped singing and said, “Thank you.”
I left the hemp shop happy with my purchase and continued up the block. Someone was singing a bluesy country song. He had a gorgeous voice, sonorous and dark with sweet highlights, a flexible tone with expressive nuances. I crossed the street to give him $5. His baseball cap was already brimming with singles. I said, “You need a bigger cap.” He had stopped singing and said thank you, and then started up again.
At another shop that sold nothing but bee and honey products was a jar on the counter labeled “tips.” Honestly? And then I thought, Why not? Here they are standing on their feet all day long making hardly a living wage. As I paid for my purchase in cash, I stuffed a single into the jar. The young lady had been busy wrapping my items, lip balm and a bees wax candle, in red tissue paper so I don’t think she saw me do it. But when she said, “Have a nice rest of your day,” she looked right into my eyes which such sincerity I was touched.
They looked like hill people, like they really needed the money.
On the next block, the main drag where the town square is, a bedraggled man and a woman had their cardboard sign out asking for money. They looked like they really needed it. The woman’s mouth was sunken as if she had no teeth. She had an angry, belligerent stare. The man’s clothes were dirty and smudged. He could barely keep his eyelids open and appeared drugged, which is what I assumed he was, or drunk.
I have principles is what I told myself
That familiar clench of anxiety, fear, and guilt seized me as I walked right past them. I might have said hello, but I did not give them money, assuming they wanted it for drugs or booze. They were begging, not busking. I have principles is what I told myself.
I crossed the street to the Chocolate Fetish shop and bought treats with cash for stockings and one for myself, all the while thinking guiltily about the couple across the street. It didn’t occur to me that I could have bought them some chocolates.
Recently, I drove through the hills around Asheville to get to the other side of town and passed one dilapidated trailer park after another. I was eager to get out of that area, glad I wasn’t so poor that I had to live there. Then I thought of all the unhoused individuals who sleep on the sidewalks downtown during the summer. Would a trailer be a blessing even if it were run down, the yard overgrown with weeds?
I had been on my way to a different hemp store that day. After I bought a jar of salve, I went out to my car, then retraced my steps and went back into the shop to buy another jar as a gift for my sister. I felt grateful I had the means to so, that I had a job that paid a decent hourly wage, and that my husband did too.
Beggars remind me of all that I have to lose
I know how fortunate I am to have money to spend and give away. But I like giving it to people who give me something in return. Non-profits do work I value and can support. Buskers offer enjoyment and I like to show my appreciation. Poor people who beg and offer nothing terrify me. I am Scrooge. I donate to several non-profits, including food banks that speak to my heart, but when faced with poverty up close and personal, I shy away. Beggars remind me of all that I have to lose. I walk past to shut out that pain.
When I was a homeless teen I thought playing my flute and opening my case for money would be begging. I didn’t want to demean myself and instead ended up exchanging sex for food and shelter. I didn’t recognize the irony at the time, but I certainly felt the shame.
Today, I shy away from beggars, from the pain of being so far down you have nothing left to lose, not even your dignity. I judge when I have no right to. Instead, I walk right past and ignore the pain and poverty right in front of me. God, forgive me.
I did not want to paint a picture of a cow. That’s what everyone else at our office holiday party was painting. Not because I’m not a team player; I am. That’s important to me. But you should never underestimate your talents. The thought of taking step-by-step direction from someone about what to paint when, where, and how made me bristle. So, I did something else.
Each canvas lined up on either side of the table had the same drawing of a cow wearing a Santa hat outlined in pencil. I took my seat and turned my pallet sideways, then upside down, trying to get that silly cow out of my head. What would I paint? I didn’t know, so I picked up my brush and started mixing colors.
The thought of taking step-by-step direction from someone about what to paint when, where, and how made me bristle.
We had a paper plate with daubs of six hues to choose from—burnt umber, black, white, red, brown, and dark green. No blue, so I was kind of stuck. But not entirely. I could still mix the burnt umber with the red for a reddish orange. Or mix the burnt umber with the green.
As soon as I started mixing and painting, I felt at ease. I hadn’t painted in years. The brush felt familiar and applying the paint strokes satisfying, but a twinge of guilt insisted that maybe I was missing out on the communal activity. But no. I was participating, just doing my own thing. No cooperation was necessary, so it was okay to be the renegade.
I squinted at the fellow emerging on my canvas, green face, rosy cheeks, flaming orange hair.
My colleagues dutifully followed the instructions while the professional led the class. I squinted at the fellow emerging on my canvas, green face, rosy cheeks, flaming orange hair. He needed a background. I love paintings with depth of field and perspective. They’re full of space and possibility. It puts the subject in context and creates a story.
Even though everyone else was following directions and painting the same thing, each rendition was slightly different from the next. Some were executed with greater skill than others. Two colleagues went rogue in their own fashion. Instead of painting white fur on Santa’s hat, one of my colleagues painted green fur and inscribed her kids’ names on the painting. Another painted an aqua colored hat and jacket. “To hang in my bathroom,” she said.
Even though everyone else was following directions and painting the same thing, each rendition was slightly different from the next.
When my teammates saw my painting they said, “Polly went really rogue!” A young couple from another party walked around our table and when they saw mine, the woman’s face lit up. “I love this!”
I was quite pleased. “You can have it if you want.”
“I’ll pay you,” she said.
I felt flattered. “No, please, take it.”
My immediate supervisor smiled and hugged me around the shoulder. “See, never underestimate your talents.” I signed the painting and gave it to the woman.
Here I was afraid of being perceived by others as a rule-breaker instead of a team player, especially by the CEO. She was there too, painting her own Santa Cow. What if I gave her the impression that I can’t follow directions and don’t listen? It’s possible she thought nothing of the kind. By satisfying my creative urge and doing something different from the rest, I fulfilled someone’s dream of owning an original painting and not some copy she herself had painted that evening.
By satisfying my creative urge and doing something different from the rest, I fulfilled someone’s dream of owning an original painting and not some copy she herself had painted that evening.
All too often I underestimate my talent, but I shouldn’t. My creative outpouring might make even just one person happy. Any happiness we can inspire in others is never a waste. I’m glad I went rogue. In so doing, I unveiled a little gem that brought joy to someone’s life.
Last week I spent two and a half days writing in a tiny cabin in the woods next to a small waterfall at the foot of a mountain. The cabin had no internet or cell phone service. I was in writer heaven.
No scrolling through Twitter, no checking emails, no looking up other writers’ articles on the Internet. I got so much done and made a breakthrough in my memoir, reorganizing and cutting chapters I loved but that were not zeroed in on the theme. Being alone gave me the freedom to record myself reading chapters in a loud voice into the mic rather than lowering my voice as I do when my husband is around so as not to be overheard. I listened to the playback and made edits I could hear but not see on the page, chapter after chapter to my heart’s content.
It was a lesson in how easily I become distracted by engaging with social media.
After my fruitful time in the cabin, I vowed that before I tweet and read email I will write first. The consequence is that after a week of this practice, I’ve hardly participated on Twitter at all. Substack announcements from other writers, blog posts, published stories and essay links on social media—I’ve not read them, and I’ve deleted all but the most important emails from journals that piled up in an endless stream in my inbox. Yes, I’m more in tune with my own writing, which is what I want to be, hoping to produce words that will get published and connect with readers, but there’s this downside: I miss my writing community.
Benefits to this time alone in the woods
There were benefits to this time alone in the woods with nothing to do but write for 48 hours, but there were drawbacks as well, one being my obsessive tendencies and the inability to moderate them. Such an existence is not sustainable nor is it practical. That’s valuable information.
I realize now that I need to find a balance between writing with no distractions and living an engaged writer’s life on social media that is sustainable.
I vow to engage in social media and limit myself to reading one author linked story per day and responding to as many Tweets that a 10 minute scroll session allows. I’ll scroll three times a day. That’s it! I’ll let you know how it goes.
If you have a problem balancing your social media time and writing time, I’d love to hear what works for you!
When human cruelty and depravity depress me and fill me with hopelessness, I look to the mysteries of the Universe and feel awe, strength, and hope again.
This Sunday’s The New York Times Magazine features an issue all about Space—space junk, space exploration, space discoveries and miracles. Did you know that the Webb telescope discovered a 6,000-mile-long plume of water floating around in our solar system?
Water! In space! It’s the stuff of fantastic science fiction. You know what this means, right? That water—our human source of life—is out there, making long distance space travel plausible.
I read stuff like this and think of the destruction in Gaza—how Hamas attacked Israel, and now Israel seems bent on creating a holocaust of its own, and wonder: How can humans be capable of sublime creation and discovery of miracles, and in the same breath, be capable of the basest evil?
Because we are mirrors of the Divine—destruction and creation wrapped into one.
We are mirrors of the Divine—destruction and creation wrapped into one.
The Big Bang took place more than 13 billion years ago. This catastrophic event was the creation of all material existence. Earth was created by gas and dust forming round a young sun. Collisions of great violence of these masses created our planets. There was no intent; it just happened.
Is human violence of the same nature—a paradoxical act of creation? Except, we humans want to destroy. And therein lies the difference. We act with intent to smash the other into non-existence. So maybe in this way we do not mirror acts of divine creation.
A paradoxical act of creation?
What do we mirror then? How did we come to embody this hatefulness? Is our wish to destroy a desire for ultimate superiority? And once achieved, what would be the result? The ability to exist peaceably as one?
I doubt it. An “other” would arise from that sameness. Some individuals would think differently and evolve, attract followers, and become “other.” The cycle would repeat itself.
We are Sisyphus in our existence through and through.
Maybe God will let us destroy ourselves, but I think not. Not when we can be awed by the magnificence of wonder and mystery—the creation of the Universe.
And that is why, despite the bloodshed and inhumane acts of violence I witness every day in the news, I behold awe and wonder and hope in my heart. Existence is eternal, and we humans may yet evolve to comprehend our divinity and act accordingly.
My hope for us is not extinguished. Not yet. Maybe never.
Protection and strength, protection and strength, constancy, and miracles. These are the gifts bestowed on me by my four major spirit guides. They’re what I needed to survive my teenage years on the road without adult supervision.
And what I need today still. I consult my guides and they help me, support me, talk to me.
My other spirit guides (I have eight) provide balance and compassion, the blessing of sensual pleasure and rest, groundedness and reverence for Life on this ancient fertile Earth, and sacrifice through service to others.
Each quality comes into play at different times, comes to the fore as needed, though they hum along in the background at all times, ever ready.
Is there anything I need to accomplish?
Today in my meditation I received the message that my existence, my consciousness will never end, and if that is the case, how do I want to live on this Earth? What is it I want to accomplish? Is there anything I need to accomplish? The thought took the worry away over what I might do today—attend an online Zoom meeting with a human spiritual teacher and his followers, or make pancakes, clean up after myself, then dust and wipe the ceiling fan of grime that’s been an eyesore for weeks?
I did the later and feel spiritually fulfilled.
Now I’m out here on the patio on this magnificent Sunday morning in the cool breeze. Leaves scuttle across the yard and scratch the cement floor. My two black dogs are happily pacing. My husband is coughing up leaf dust in the driveway where he is raking and sweeping into yard bags. It is too hot to sit in the sun; not for me, but for my sensitive laptop.
Then that’s your path as well—an essential section of it. Perhaps there’s something you need to learn that you could only learn doing that job.
It struck me today as I contemplated whether to join that spiritual session that people are so hungry for direction. We are hungry for answers about the mystery of us. Who am I? What am I? Am I doing the right thing? Am I on the right path? How could you not be because that’s where you are!
But what if you are stuck in a job you hate? What about that? Then that’s your path as well—an essential section of it. Perhaps there’s something you need to learn that you can only learn doing that job. Dig deep and see what is before you. Can you lean into it and discover what is at the heart of that experience? It will unfold for you, if not today, then maybe in the distant future when you will realize, finally, what that lesson was all about.
This moment is but a breath
You have Eternity to learn who you are. This moment is but a breath, a single star amongst trillions and trillions. Significant, important, meaningful. We all have meaningful lives. The Universe needs us, needs our tears and our questions, our angst and joy. Our love, our hatred—everything. We make this existence twirl in a lovely bath of creation that goes on and on and on.
Delight. That’s what life is, what creation is. Delight, joy, ecstasy, however it comes to us at this time. It is meaningful. You are meaningful and lovely and precious.
“I am free, playful and buoyant under Her tender glance and loving care.”
When I was little my sense of self was so great that when my sister told me I was a human being I stamped my foot and said I was not a human bean. I was a Polly. I knew in my marrow no matter how much she taunted me that spring day she was wrong.
We had climbed onto our front gate’s stone post to taste the honeysuckle. I picked the blossom and pinched its end, then pulled out the single stem with the gold head, pushing a tiny bead of clear nectar towards the narrow opening where I would catch it on my tongue. My sister and I nibbled away at a dozen or so flowers, comparing our harvest. I could tell the way the blossom resisted whether the drop would come out heavy and sweet or if the funnel end was too wide and the stalk would yield nothing.
I was in all of it, feeling the world with pleasure, as if all the world was alive for my enjoyment.
Earlier, I had gazed into bright daffodils, filling myself in their glow, the delicate brown paper covering the root of the bloom like a napkin. The sky was blue and the air was crisp and I was in all of it, feeling the world with pleasure, as if all the world was alive for my enjoyment. I was the master of the world, complete in my sense of belonging.
My sister was the fool, telling me I was a human bean, but she was older and I was used to believing her, believing that she might be right and I wrong. But in this case I knew she was mistaken. I was a Polly through and through and nothing could change that ever.
Or so I thought.
The world had become a frightful place
It wasn’t too long after this exchange, no more than a year or so that my sense of self was shattered, only I wouldn’t remember the details of why until I was in my fifties. I forgot who Polly was and chose instead to hide. The world had become a frightful place full of barking dogs and forests of bewildering density and scope, dark spaces full of decay and rot, logs full of insects and spiders, puddles coated with slime. I was expected to walk through these woods to get to school for first grade after my sister and brother showed me the way.
Something had happened. Something I wouldn’t remember until nearly fifty years later. My sense of Polly was shattered. It was best not to know myself, to hide a part of myself because I would die if I remembered. A dear family friend who wasn’t so dear after all. My fear had become great.
Last week I was in San Antonio for a public speaking engagement. I was telling my life story to a group of people who have been adversely affected by someone else’s sexual behavior. Leading up to the talk, I worried that what I had to say was self-serving and egotistical and would help no one, fearful about how I would be received, that my story was too shameful.
That was egotistical of me. Why?
Because….
The event wasn’t about me!
The event was about people sharing and learning from one another. My being there was not about glorifying myself. It was about being of service. I understood that in hindsight with prayer and a change of attitude.
After my presentation several people congratulated me and said I’d done a great job. One attendee said, “That’s one of the best talks we’ve had for this event.”
I said, “Thank you,” but thought, Not the best? As if because there were other talks as good as mine, mine wasn’t good enough. Now, to me, that’s shameful.
Where does this neediness and competition come from?
Not liking that about myself, I explored it further. Where does this neediness and competition come from? Why, after all these years and all the hard work I’ve done, is that idea still wedged in my heart?
I think it’s a matter of faith and habit. My Higher Power placed me in that room of damaged people because She knew I had something to say that could help them. How I helped was not up to me. How was in God’s hands. Several people came up to me afterwards and said, “That bit about [blank] I really related to,” or, “I’m so glad you said that because I thought I was the only one.”
Words take on meaning for the listener or reader
My presentation was about all the people in the room, not about me. And that’s what any speech or writing is about. An author’s words take on meaning for the listener or reader. That’s what makes the work valuable, not the author.
Now I realize that in my nervousness and self-doubt I was second-guessing God. In my journey as a writer and public speaker I hope never to second-guess God again. I am but a vessel, sharing my experience, strength, and hope. In the future, I shall perceive public speaking not as self-aggrandizement, but as an opportunity to do God’s will.
By waiting, and holding my tongue, I experienced good fortune. My husband recently invited me out to dinner with his colleagues. I turned him down. Not because I didn’t want to go. The date conflicted with my women’s group ritual. I’ve been a member of that group for 30 years, and, having moved out of state can longer attend in person. They were planning a hybrid meeting just for me, so I said no to my husband, but thanks.
It turned out that my friend hosting the ritual (lighting candles, honoring the four cardinal directions, speaking our spiritual truths) canceled. I forgot to tell my husband I was now free. While winding along the Blue Ridge Parkway above Asheville on our way towards a trailhead, he mentioned his dinner the following night. I perked up.
“I totally forgot,” I said. “Moon Group was canceled. I can go with you now.”
He looked irked. “It’s probably too late,” he said. His boss had already made the reservation, etc.
I thought to myself he could ask anyway couldn’t he? Certainly, one more in attendance wouldn’t be a huge inconvenience. But rather than suggest this I kept my peace.
I announced I needed a beak
We parked the car and huffed up the trail with our two black rescue dogs, surprised that at their advanced age they were doing better than we were. We hadn’t been out on a trail with them for a long while for a variety of reasons.
About a mile and a half in, huffing and puffing up wooden and stone steps built into the mountain curtesy of a conservation team, I announced I needed a break. While our pups lapped water from a doggie bag, my husband pulled out his cell phone. Thanks to towers even at 5,000+ feet he was able to leave a phone message.
I thought to myself he could ask anyway couldn’t he?
“Hi Jenny. Is it too late to include my wife for dinner tomorrow night? Her event was canceled.”
I smiled at him. He smiled back. I figured he’d get there eventually. My telling him to call his boss would have irritated him and done nothing for my sense of wellbeing.
I like to think it was Higher Power’s way of taking care of me. I got what I wanted and needed most. Keeping ties with my old home group is important, but so is going out to dinner and meeting people here in my new hometown.
And my husband figured out his priorities on his own.
