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.
Have you done an awesome thing you were afraid to do lately, like jump into a cold mountain stream only to be rewarded with pure joy?
I hope this summer brings you at least one of these kinds of experiences.
I experienced one such blissful moment recently. My husband and I have scheduled outings every Friday. This past week we went to Skinny Dip Falls in the Pisgah National Forest. No one was skinny dipping though.
The water looked so inviting and it was a hot day, but it was so cold! 55 degrees! I dove in anyway and rose out of the water shrieking. But then I dove in again and swam underwater to the waterfall. Pure bliss.
The reward of bravery is precious fulfillment. I’m not talking about folly. There’s a difference. Folly is when you don’t take into consideration the likely negative consequences and do it anyway. Bravery is when you commit to a challenge that has potentially beneficial outcomes.
If you are faced with an opportunity that looks awesome, but frightening, I encourage you to take the plunge. I’ll bet you’ll be rewarded with bliss.
Years ago I hated myself and treated myself accordingly. I tried to manipulate others to get my way. How happy I am that life has given me second chances over and over again. To make mistakes and learn from them, to get it right—to get me right.
Yesterday I was on a Zoom meeting with over 30 volunteers giving their time to a beloved organization to assure its health and longevity. We were online from noon to five and in that time everyone was kind, loving, giving, cordial, polite and conscientious. I felt grateful to be amongst such healthy people—so lively, vibrant, and caring. They mirrored my own spiritual development.
Happiness and Service to Others
Whereas earlier in my life I resented anyone asking for my help, or to go out of my way for them, today I am eager and grateful to be of service. It is a wonderful way to live. I am so grateful to God for showing me this new way of being. She presents us with just the right lessons exquisitely tailored to our needs. She gives us opportunities to learn precisely what we need to know in order to grow in awareness and enable change within ourselves.
Being of service to others or to something greater than myself is one of the many ways I grow and become a happier person. I am enjoying the fruits of those lessons, namely, patience and gratitude.
When I was six years old my mother took me to a roller-skating rink. I had never been on skates before and hated the way my feet rolled out from under me. I clung to the wall in misery as I made my way around the rink. My mother enjoyed herself in the center doing twirls and circles.
Around I went until I noticed I was the only person on the rink. What was going on? When I approached the opening, people were calling my name, yelling and laughing. Arms reached for me, hands grabbing. Terrified, I avoided them and continued on my way, vaguely aware that a man and a woman were performing in the center of the rink.
I’ll bet very few people were watching the professional skaters. Instead, they were watching this little girl clinging to the wall, going around yet again. What on earth was she doing?
Humiliated and embarrassed, I ran into the bathroom and hid
When I approached the exit a second time, hands pulled me off the rink into a crowd of laughing adults and children. Humiliated and embarrassed, the moment my mother removed the skates from me feet I ran into the bathroom and hid in a stall.
Is this experience an emblem of my life—me struggling in places I shouldn’t be, but refusing help and needing to be rescued?
We all make mistakes. The last thing we need is an audience. I hated being the center of humiliating attention where an arena of strangers laughed and pointed at me. And yet, since then I’ve made myself the center of humiliating attention time and again.
Sorry, I don’t know
When I was performing a flute concerto from memory in Orchestra Hall with my university orchestra, I lost my place and completely botched the performance. My French teacher was sitting front and center, a look of horror on his face as his grin slid into a grimace. Another time I was hired as a consultant for a state arts commission to speak about corporate sponsorship of the arts, but I didn’t know enough about it. I had to say, “Sorry, I don’t know, but I’ll get back to you,” repeatedly to a room of 300 people.
I forgive myself for the mistakes I have made. That gives me confidence.
And I’m about to do it again. With my memoir this time, where I write about all the terrifying, humiliating, and shameful things I have done in my life. Why?
Because I survived. And because it’s a good story. I didn’t get all the guidance I needed when I was little. Adults didn’t watch over me, teaching me, helping me, but I survived and learned to thrive. Learning to love myself and treat myself and others well has been my journey. I forgive myself for the mistakes I have made, and forgive others for hurting or abandoning me. That gives me confidence to stop abandoning myself. That’s a good story.
So, this time when I enter the arena I will be ready. I cannot control the outcome, but when I get published, I will be prepared to face the audience with confidence. This is my story, and I am ready to be of service, hoping it may help someone.
When my mother was pregnant with me, she begged her obstetrician for an abortion. She didn’t want to be pregnant yet again, didn’t want another child. Yet, she had no choice. She had to give birth to me.
“I adored you the moment you popped out, of course,” she says.
The last time she told me this abortion story, she was 95 and I was 67. She’s been telling me this story all my life. I’ve spent decades wondering why and whether she really loves me. Letting me leave home at age 15, abandoning me in my own apartment at age 17, not wanting to see my firstborn, her first grandchild, until he was older and more interesting. (“Newborns are so boring. They don’t do anything.”) So many reasons to wonder—did she adore me?
I used to take her treatment of me personally. It hurt deeply, having a mother who didn’t seem to care all that much whether I existed. But I have learned what matters is that I love myself and have found others who love me as well. My mother’s lack of depth or intimacy needn’t hold me back from becoming all that I can be. I don’t take her treatment of me personally anymore.
A Change of Attitude
It takes a change of attitude to see ourselves as worthy of love and to let go of the resentments towards those who have hurt us. That can take a lot of work. Painful work. But it is worthwhile facing it.
It takes a change of attitude to see ourselves as worthy of love and to let go of the resentments towards those who have hurt us.
How I started out in life wasn’t my choice. How I have continued in life is my choice. I chose to love me. I wish everyone made that choice, although it’s hard work getting to that point of self-love. It was for me anyway.
When I was 21, it was my most fervent dream to believe I was good—innately good, and to feel it and be it and operate from that truth. It took decades for me to embody that truth, even though I was good from the very beginning. At first it was just a dream, a hope, and then I began to believe I am love.
It is true for all of us. Many of us just don’t know it or believe it yet. But you will. If that is what you want to believe, you will know you are love.
I found the goodness within me and believe it to be true. I have faith in a Higher Power that loves me.
As for my mom, all I can do is pray for her. And I do. God will handle the rest.
A young friend called asking for advice saying she was full of anxiety and didn’t know what to do. She had fled to her parents’ house after a fight with her husband. I asked whether she had done that before—fled to her parents. Yes, numerous times, she said.
“And does that work? Is it helpful?”
“No.”
“I believe that is the definition of insanity. Doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different outcome.”
She paused, taking that statement in.
“Do you feel unsafe with your husband?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said.
And then she figured out on her own what she needed to do, which was to go home and deal with the pain rather than run from it.
Scientists run experiments repeatedly to do just exactly that—to get the same results in order to prove that their theorem is correct. It truly is insanity when we do the same thing over and over hoping for something different to happen.
Finding Clarity
So often we get so close to a thing we can’t see it. I’m glad my friend called me. I could see clearly what the issue was and simply asked her the right questions.
That’s what a good editor does–cuts through the confusion to arrive at clarity. I need one of those. I feel like I’m running in circles with my memoir. Someday, I hope you’ll get to read it. My message is, don’t take what happens to you in life personally. It has no bearing on your value and worth. Your dignity, psyche and heart may be bruised. It takes time to face that pain and sort it out. But running away from pain never works. You must stay in the trenches and deal with it. And then you discover your self-worth is intact.
It takes time to face that pain and sort it out. But running away from pain never works. You must stay in the trenches and deal with it. And then you discover your self-worth is intact.
Attitude adjustments take work and time. If you’ve told yourself “I’m worthless” for years, it may take time to believe otherwise. And then you will know your worth and smile deep down in your soul.
Be patient and gentle with yourself. You’re going to be okay.
A slightly longer version of this essay was published in Vol. XI, Spring 2023 print edition of MetonymLiterary Journal.
My ninety-one-year-old mother is shivering on the patio on a cool spring day. I remove my shawl from my shoulders and drape it around hers. She opens her eyes. “Ew! What are you doing with that thing? I don’t want that!” She tosses it to the ground. I pick it up and walk away feeling hurt and ashamed. I remind myself I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s my first time in my mother’s new house on the other side of the country. I try not to disturb the precarious balance she and my sister, Tiggy, her permanent caretaker, have established.
Dinnertime isn’t for a couple of hours, but my body is on a different timetable. I find a pot of water on the stove, sniff it, and boil a potato in it. Ten minutes before it’s done I add a stalk of broccoli. As I’m eating, I think, broccoli certainly is sweet in this part of the country. What an odd variety.
Tiggy enters the kitchen and goes to the stove. “Where’s the water that was in this pot?”
“Oh! I used it.”
“That was hummingbird syrup! Why didn’t you ask first?”
I laugh at my mistake. “No wonder the broccoli was so sweet!”
She is not amused. She flips a hand and slaps her thigh in exasperation, then leaves the room. I feel clumsy and stupid. I get out my phone and look up on the Internet how to make hummingbird syrup and have just found a bag of white sugar in the pantry when Tiggy reenters the kitchen. “Don’t bother,” she says.
“I just thought I’d help.”
“Well, please don’t.”
Bruised and angry, I grab an umbrella and go for a long walk in the rain. I reach a friend on my cell phone and tell him my woes. By coincidence, he’s also visiting family and tells me his. We laugh and take courage from each other.
Late at night, in the privacy of my sister’s art studio which seconds as a guest bedroom, I lie naked on my yoga mat in front of the space heater. It’s how I relax and unwind. Is it my imagination, or do I smell paper burning? Someone taps on the door. The doorknob twists back and forth. My sister knocks loudly. I quickly pull on my bathrobe and yank open the door. She stands there looking rejected and hurt. “Why did you lock it?”
“I like privacy.”
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“Because you woke me up,” I lied.
“If you hadn’t locked it I would have snuck in quietly. I wouldn’t have woken you.”
She gets what she needs, then softly closes the door behind her. I hesitate, my hand poised over the knob, but leave it unlocked.
The next morning Mom looks up from her crossword puzzle. “Did you hear me yelp last night? Tiggy made a batch of hummingbird syrup, forgot it was on the stove and set off the smoke detector. I was terrified!”
I open the back door and find the scorched pot on the stoop; billows of charred lava fill it to the brim. I pick it up, thinking I’ll scrub it clean, hesitate and put it back down.
Later, I drive Mom to a national wetlands park nearby Tiggy says Mom won’t like.
It has finally stopped raining and only a few people are there. We sit on a bench listening to birds and admiring the view.
“It’s lovely out here,” Mom says. “Peaceful. Tiggy would love it.”
I agree. I want to carry her here in my arms and make her sit and breathe.
Returning home, I notice the weedy flowerbed encircling the massive ponderosa pine out front. I enjoy weeding. The physical exertion of digging into the Earth and releasing Her fragrant richness soothes me. After depositing Mom into her favorite chair, I go to the garage and find a trowel and spade but no gardening gloves. I’d ask Tiggy if she has some but decide against it, thinking she’ll tell me not to bother.
I bite into the impacted, grass-bound bed with the spade, then kneel on the cool ground, disentangling various bulbs from roots and put them aside in a pile to replant. A few mounds of grass clumps are scattered around me when Tiggy rushes outside. “There are all kinds of bulbs in there! You’ve got to be careful!”
The roots of our sisterly frustration pull at me. I resist, but not successfully. I smile wanly, pick up the trowel and spade, and without a word, take them back to the garage. Then I retreat to her studio and sit on the bed, arms folded, and stare out the window at nothing, my mind a wall of frustration. I look about at her art projects everywhere—huge, bold oil paintings, delicate watercolors, wire sculptures of playful characters—a woman eating peas, a cowboy singing, and wonder at the woman who creates so marvelously and uninhibitedly. This is the sister I want to be with, not this brittle, tense person I now see.
My eye falls on an empty glass I hadn’t noticed before sitting on the wicker trunk that acts as a bedside table. It’s etched with the words, “The Pumpkin Ball.” “Pumpkin” is my mother’s pet name for me. Then I turn and notice for the first time the clothes rack that had been lying in a jumble on the floor earlier is now assembled with a few items Tiggy offered me hanging from it, including a very nice black mohair jacket that no longer fits her. I am touched by her thoughtfulness, her generosity. I feel chastened. I look around at the dazzling expressions of my sister’s creativity, appreciating her artwork. It is all so stunning. I ache because she is stunning, and I miss her.
I hear Tiggy coughing and clearing her throat in the next room. I want to make up with her but don’t know how. How can I walk through the adjoining bedroom without an ugly encounter? I yearn to return to the flower bed, to dig in the soil, to pull and weed, to tidy things. Then I remember, I’m not nine years old anymore. I can do what is best for me without hurting anyone. Perhaps I have been careless and disruptive. But right now, I need to be outside, digging and pulling and breaking apart. I close my eyes and pray. Help me, Lord. Let me be kind and patient and good to us both.
I stand in the doorway. “I’m going back out to weed, if that’s alright.”
Tiggy turns from her computer. I detect a fraction of relief, an easing of tension about the eyes and mouth. She holds out three left-handed gardening gloves. “It’s all I have. It really would be lovely if you want to weed. I just wanted you to know what’s in there. I’m sure you’d feel the same about your garden.”
“You’re right. I’m sure I would.”
I am three-quarters of the way around the tree, shaking out dirt from a root ball when Tiggy approaches. At first, I think she is going to tell me I’m doing it wrong, but then I notice she’s smiling and holding out a glass of wine.
“What? Now?” I survey my work. A few primroses past bloom breathe freely, two lily stalks yet to flower stoop slightly, clumps of volunteer blackberry seedlings lay in a pile ready to be transplanted. “Maybe in a bit,” I say, “but thanks.”
“It looks good. Are you going to be here all night?” she teases.
“Just a while longer. I’m almost done.”
She retreats and a moment later I hear tapping at the window above me. Tiggy and Mom wave. They put their hands to their brows and turn left and right as if scanning the horizon searching for me. I mime binoculars with my hands and stare back at them, grinning.
After all the tiny crocus bulbs and large tulip bulbs are replanted, and I’ve swept away the dirt from the brick border and dumped grassy clumps by the compost I enter the house to wash up. Vegetable soup heats in the crock pot on the counter. I help myself and when Tiggy enters the kitchen she looks alarmed.
“You said to help myself to whatever was in the kitchen,” I say, mid-mouthful.
She stammers, “Yes, but….” Then pauses and relaxes her shoulders. “Okay…it’s not quite ready.”
She’s right, but I’m famished and scoop another spoonful into my mouth. “It’s delicious just the way it is.”
She accepts my choice with a faint smile. A truce, then, as if she’s acknowledging, to each her own.
The rest of our visit goes relatively smoothly. Eventually we talk about Mom’s estate. I tell Tiggy how much I appreciate the care with which she has managed all of Mom’s financial affairs. She’s made a huge sacrifice to take care of our mother. I endeavor to accept her choices and not interfere. It’s difficult; I feel guilty not doing more. But I hold myself back. All I can do is take care of myself, watch from a distance, and hope my love is enough.
There’s a family of catbird’s right outside my bedroom window. The bush leans up against the pane, so I have an eyelevel view of the nest. I saw the moment one of the parents returned to it this spring, inspecting its intactness, how it had weathered over the winter. I watched as Mama bolstered its security and sturdiness with new twigs. And then it got in, ready to lay eggs. (I had seen the moment the nestlings fledged last year.)
Mama and Papa catbird are diligent parents. I see them foraging throughout the day while I’m in the yard, flying back and forth with small worms. When I’m in my room, I keep a discreet distance from the window, wanting to give the family its privacy, not wanting to scare them away, but I doubt if I even could, at least not permanently. The parents are so dedicated.
Mama flies to the bush just now while I’m watching. She lands in the low branches, then hops her way up to the nest. I think she saw me through the glass for she perched on the nest looking at me before feeding the tiny beaks that barely crested into view. And then she stuffed worm bits into several beaks and sat on her brood. It’s a cool morning.
Ah, what maternal bliss, watching what nature does instinctually. Alas, it is not so for us humans.
My husband and I just had an argument about plastic trash cans. He wants to buy several for yard waste. I like using the large brown paper bags made of recycled materials. This morning, just as he was leaving to do errands, he said he was stopping by the hardware store to buy some plastic bins.
We’d had this discussion before. I didn’t say anything the first time he brought it up. Many of our neighbors use plastic bins labeled “Brush” in big, white letters painted on the side. His argument is that we could save money and avoid the hassle of running out of bags and having to run to the store to buy more. My question was how many times would we use the plastic bins until we broke even after the initial investment? In any event, it sounded like a reasonable, practical solution to yard waste collection.
Except, I hate plastic.
I don’t like to purchase plastic, nor to encourage the production of more plastic. I said none of this the first time my husband brought it up, choosing instead to go along to get along. So today when he said he was going out to buy some plastic trash bins for yard waste, I said, “okay,” and closed my writing room door. Three seconds later, I opened it again, went out to the kitchen and said, as he stood with his hand on the back doorknob, “Have you considered where we’re going to store all those trash cans? I mean, won’t they look unsightly standing around?”
He gave me a look of exasperation. “I knew you were going to do this. I knew you were going to object to the idea eventually.”
He knows me so well.
“Really? Is that all you care about?”
“But, seriously, have you considered it? I mean, where will they go? They’ll be an eyesore, won’t they?”
He stared at me, virtual smoke clouding his face. “Really? Is that all you care about?”
“Well, no. They’re plastic.”
“There you go. That’s the real reason. I knew it all along.”
“Yes, but I’m more environmentally conscious than you are.”
“They won’t go in the landfill. We’ll keep using them.”
“But yes they will. They’ll last for thousands of years after we’re gone.”
He looked at me, that same look he’s given me for years on various occasions. “Fine. I won’t get them.”
I didn’t say anything. Though I was glad he decided to please me, I didn’t like our arguing about it. I just wish he was more conscientiously minded about the environment. He resents that I am. He hates my obsession with plastic, the fact that I want to buy glassware with plastic lids for food leftovers instead of using something like Tupperware. But he goes along and washes and reuses the plastic Ziplock bags I buy without complaining. Today, he’ll go to the hardware store and buy my tomato stakes, but not the plastic trash bins.
We’ve been married nearly 40 years. He loves me. I love him. Sometimes we go along to get along. I was trying to do that by not saying anything when he first brought up the idea of plastic trash bins. In the end, I just had to voice my concern. After he left, I thought of one solution. He could get a plastic bin for himself, and I could continue to use paper bags. But I didn’t call him with this idea. I knew he’d think it was ridiculous.
Oh, God–being ourselves while married. It’s trying sometimes. One of us always bends. I get the feeling it’s him more than me most times. Perhaps I owe him an apology, but what would I say? I’m sorry I’m so stubborn? But I’m not planning on changing that aspect of myself, so why apologize? Or should I say that I’m so grateful that he is a caring, loving, accepting husband? Yes, that I can say, and have said, and will continue to say for as long as we both shall live.
Here’s a prayer: Help me to stop blaming people for their illnesses. Those illnesses may include selfishness, narcissism, addiction to alcohol, drugs, pornography, or gambling. Their behaviors may affect my life profoundly, may make me sad and angry. I have a right to those feelings, but I might not lose my cool so readily if I distance myself from the disease and have compassion for the person.
Who knows what kinds of trauma our loved ones may have experienced that they have never grown past? And even when we do know some of it, we’ll never know the full extent of the deep pain that caused them to create unhealthy coping mechanisms, or to self-medicate with whatever.
My coping mechanism as a teen and young adult was narcissism. I isolated and did whatever the hell I wanted while trying to get everyone to like me. Bad combo. I’d often be mystified as to why people became extremely annoyed with me or even enraged. I was just taking care of myself, doing what I thought I had to do to survive without thinking of the consequences. My actions often affected people negatively. They were inconvenienced, betrayed, lied to, manipulated, and hurt by my selfishness. I gradually learned to be accountable and take responsibility for my actions, especially when I saw their negative effects on others. Painful lessons. It takes a dose of humility to say “I’m sorry.”
Narcissists find apologies extremely difficult to make. Making amends may not even be on their radar. We who live with narcissists must accept them as they are and not try to change their behavior. To do so is to lose our sanity, our own mental health. All we can do is take care of ourselves.
“I do not like your behavior right now. I do not want to be with you.”
I take care of myself by honoring my boundaries, even when I can’t get someone else to. If someone is behaving badly, I leave the room, take a break from their presence, do something for myself. I limit my exposure to sick behavior. If it’s a family member or loved one, I do what I can to be of service, but I have my limits. When someone crosses my boundaries, I’m out of there.
Knowing that I can’t change or control someone helps me stay sane, keeps me grounded. I am only in control of myself, and even then sometimes I might be powerless over how I feel. That’s why I pray—to feel guided, protected, and loved. When I pray, when I focus on that guidance and love, it gives me the grace to be patient, loving, and kind in return.
“Hate the behavior, not the soul.”
Sometimes I have to say to someone who has crossed the line, “I do not like your behavior right now. I do not want to be with you.” The recipient of this message may well honor it. If they have followed me into my sanctuary, she may leave it after hearing this. No one likes to hear that their presence is not wanted. Then I’ll breathe deeply, and if I’m a caretaker and can’t leave the house, maybe read poetry, or prayers, or listen to music, or watch my favorite show on Netflix until I calm down.
If I need extra help, I might turn to a mantra like this one:
“Kindle in me, oh Lord, the blazing fire of faith
To be the pole star of my life.”
That’s one of my favorites. It inspires me to believe that help is present, and that I am okay and well loved and cared for.
I hope the next time you deal with an unpleasant person in your life that you care for deeply but whom you also sometimes hate because of their sick, selfish behavior, try to distance yourself from their disease. Try to hate the behavior, not the soul. This practice helps me to accept the person as they are. Simply accept. Sure, it may be sad, because it’s such a tragic waste of life. But it’s that person’s life, not yours. Now, is that selfish? No. It is realistic. It is life on life’s terms.
My grandmother and my mother were visiting an art museum in Boston. This was years ago when my mother was a little girl. They were by themselves in a quiet gallery looking at a painting when my grandmother farted loudly. She hadn’t noticed the gentleman standing nearby. She turned to my mother and said, “Penelope!” and stalked away.
Although this is a funny story, it is also rather sad. My poor mother! My grandmother was heartless and cruel in that moment. The fact that my mother remembered this story and told it to me decades later meant that it still held power for her. It was a kind of emblem of her relationship with her mother who could be cruel at times. My mother could be cruel to me at times, too, and in turn, I could also be thoughtlessly cruel to others.
I doubt that my grandmother ever apologized to my mother for treating her so poorly in that instance. My mother has never apologized to me for the way she has treated me cruelly at times. That doesn’t mean that I need do the same.
We all inherit certain characteristics from our parents, certain traits of which we are not proud. Every time we enact that bad behavior is an opportunity to make amends and to act with mindfulness the next time.
Every time we enact that bad behavior is an opportunity to make amends.
As a writer I am often asked to critique others’ work. It is a valuable tool to get honest feedback from another writer. But when a writer asks, “Are you enjoying this story?” What if my answer is, “No.”
That’s my mother talking in her blunt way. I have had to teach myself to be mindful of my words and realize that I can respond kindly and gently without resorting to rudeness. “No,” may be honest, but isn’t it a bit cruel? Mightn’t I couch my words and say something like, “At the beginning I had a little trouble following the plot and understanding the relationships between the characters. I’m enjoying it much more towards the middle where I can see what’s going on and am intrigued. I want to find out what the outcome will be.”
In this case, I’m glad I paid attention to my initial reaction and paused so that I could respond thoughtfully. All of us can choose different behaviors from the poor ones we have been taught.
I imagine myself in an art gallery with my daughter and farting into the silence, then laughing and saying something like, “Oops! Excuse me. Sorry about that,” then wafting the air and slinking away, taking hold of my daughter’s hand. Maybe the person standing behind us grimaced, and shrugged, and said, “It happens.” Or said nothing at all and pretended nothing happened. What I mean to say is that when we put down our defenses, we make the world a kinder place to live in with all our imperfections, even the smelly ones.
No one is perfect. Neither am I, but I can strive to be mindful, thoughtful, intelligent, and kind.
