Letting Go

September 29, 2012 By

Perogies while being prepared.

Things Change.  One minute the sun is shining, the next it’s raining cats and dogs. I might be really sad at noon, and then find myself happy and laughing hysterically by four o’clock. When I have a day that makes me want to shoot myself in the head, the next day I may be filled with uncontrollable excitement to get on with my life. None of us ever knows from one minute to the next what is before us.  The past is done, never to return.  The future hasn’t happened yet, so how can we truly plan what we will be doing next? Changes are constant. They can be large or small, altering our lives in many ways. Some are good. Others bring on excruciating pain and suffering.  The one thing that never changes, is the need to let go of whatever we are clinging to, so that we can ride the waves toward new beginnings.  It can be hard. So very hard.  Especially when we are dealing with major loss.

Right now, there are lots of changes happening in my life, and lots of things I need to let go of.  Though there is nothing terribly earth shattering, they’re bothersome and sometimes sad.  For one thing, I’m aging.  Nothing works quite the way it used to.  I can no longer wiggle my ears or do fifty jumping jacks all in a row. It’s to be expected, of course, but I’m loving my later years for my ability to be more honest and to say what I need to say without embarrassing myself.

Just a little over three weeks ago, I decided to go gluten-free.  I’m feeling absolutely terrific.  All of my aches and pains are gone, food cravings are a thing of the past, my energy levels have risen to new heights, and I’m slowly losing weight … about a pound a week.  It’s miraculous and I love every minute of discovering the new me.  What’s to complain about?

I think of Christmas and the traditional foods we’ve always enjoyed in the past.  Like the perogies, forever my favorite holiday food, since the beginning of time.  Little packages of pasta, filled with a variety of fillings, like sauerkraut, mushrooms, or potato and cheese, are to die for.  We smother them with caramelized onions and sour cream, and spend our time eating them in food heaven.  But no more.  I do take solace in their sweet memory and know I’ll probably come up with something that tastes similar but doesn’t use pasta.

Seven weeks ago we adopted an adorable little terrier.  As of three days ago, he is no longer with us. We had to return him to the shelter because he began beating up our old guy, Sam.  He also turned out to be destructive, shredding a new chair cover, chewing on the woodwork, and then a table.  Sam was not hurt too badly the last time Terry started a fight, but everyone, including the trainer, the vet and Terry’s former foster mom, agreed that things could take a very bad turn if we didn’t do something. The amount of training he would need was something we couldn’t commit to. And my first concern was for Sam, who was already coming to us for protection, whenever Terry would get too rowdy.

We’re feeling pretty glum at this point and despite his problems, all of us, including Sam, miss the dickens out of him.  He was a very sweet little guy most of the time.  I’d recently discovered his love for water, when visiting with a neighbor. He’d stepped down onto the first step in her pool and spent the next ten minutes just sitting in the shallow water with a huge grin on his face. I promised myself I’d get him a small toddler’s pool for next summer, but then the last and most injurious fight took place.  I spent the last day he was with us in tears, hugging him and wishing for a fairytale ending, in which he suddenly sees the error of his ways and straightens himself out.  But the true fairytale will happen when he finds a new forever home, where he is the one and only kingpin, preferably with a few kids, whom he adores, and a large space to run in.  There has already been some interest in him from others looking for a small dog and I’m feeling it could happen very soon.

My Mom

My biggest letting go for now, will happen in a week or so when I take my mother’s ashes up to Long Island, to scatter them in the places where she was truly happy.  Some of her ashes are already buried next to my Dad in New Hampshire and some are under the Smoke Tree, we planted in her honor, here in Virginia.  She was not all that happy in New England, and after we, as a family, moved to Vermont, she went back to the Island often, spending her time staying in a small cottage, and visiting friends and relatives.  When she died in 2007, I was not able to plan a funeral or a memorial for her.  I was spent from years of being her caretaker.  I was also very angry with her, unable to find a middle ground where I would be ready and able to let her go with forgiveness and love.  Though it’s taken a while, I’m ready now.  I do miss her terribly and often find myself wanting to call her, to let her in on any exciting news I have to share.  It’s funny, but I do think she knows it all anyway and is up there, sitting on the edge of a cloud, still trying to run the show.

I don’t know how I’ll feel once I finally commit Mom to the earth and sea. Lately, I’ve felt a few second thoughts creep in, suggesting that maybe it would be better if she stayed in the closet where I’ve kept her all this time. But the thing is, I know I need to set her free, so that I can move on with my own life.  Mom’s hold on me began to die this past June, when we had to put her cat, Cleo, to sleep. That calico kitty was my last living connection to Mom. With her, I learned to forgive Mom and myself for the pain we caused each other.  Now it’s time to set myself free as well. I wish to go on living a glorious, rich life, and to enjoy every moment as they arise, without regret of any kind.

 What kinds of changes are going on in your life?  What do you need to let go of?

Filed Under: Animals I Love, family, Gratefulness, Healthy Living, Navigating Through Life Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Writing My Life

September 22, 2012 By

At five, standing in my grandparent’s garden.

When I told a friend a while back that I’m in the process of writing a memoir, she asked me what it was going to write about. I struggled with what to tell her. I wasn’t very clear yet myself, but trying to find words that I thought would serve the purpose, I said, “Well, it’s about my life, how I came to be diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and how I’ve brought peace into my life.”

Sufficing as a fair to middling, but far too general a description, it didn’t answer the deeper questions that had been rolling around in my head when I started the writing. “What am I going to include?  What do I want to say and why do I even want to do this?  Am I up to the challenge of reliving some of the darker moments of my life?”

In my first conversations with myself about writing my life, I didn’t have a clue as to how to start.  So I started with stories as they came to me. I published some here, on this blog.  I wrote the happy stories, avoiding the dark stuff, not ready to spill the beans and their big stink. Slowly, I started allowing the ghosts waiting outside the door into my studio and began digging deeper, becoming more honest with and about myself.

Many have told me that I’ve lived a fascinating life and should get it all down on paper. They told me it would be helpful to others who’ve suffered through undiagnosed PTSD. Many people don’t understand that it can be caused by lesser events than living through a tsunami or being a veteran of a cruel and arduous war.

But my first concern was just getting it all out of my internal storeroom, knowing that once I started getting my shame out, I’d feel lighter and happier. I could downsize my memory bank, just as I was downsizing my belongings and living space. I felt that writing through my struggles, I could begin to put the fragmented pieces of my life back together, reaching a new understanding of who I am and how I got to be me.  I knew it could open up the doors I’ve kept locked for far too long and giving me a new perspective on where I’ve come from.

As I was trying to get started on this project, I was diagnosed with Endometrial cancer, which grows in the lining of the Uterus. I was told by a number of doctors that if one has to have cancer, this is the best kind to have. It’s easily treated, depending of course, on its stage when it’s discovered.  Even so, I was extremely frightened. Cancer is the killer in my family. Heart disease has rarely been an issue. All of my relatives, who have passed on, died of complications and the affects cancer had on their bodies. We’ve had cancer of the lungs, bladder, esophagus, nasal cavity, and colorectal cancer.  I found it disturbing to think that unless I’m run over by a dump truck or die of some other external cause, my life would most probably end in the same kind of suffering that my forebears in death went through.  I did not want that for myself.

Treatment for my cancer was a simple hysterectomy, removing all of my reproductive organs. As long as it would be gone, I didn’t care about the loss of parts of myself. At my age, I wouldn’t be needing them anyway. I now visit my Oncologist twice a year to be rechecked and to date there has been no reoccurrence. I’m told that the chances of it returning are rare and should it show up again it is treatable.

While spending several months recuperating from the surgery, I decided that there was no time to worry about cancer and its potential return.  I had no time to feel sorry for myself or the events in my life that had brought me to this moment. I wanted a new a perspective on how to proceed through the rest of my days. Life has been hard and cruel at times and I still bear the scars of child abuse. I’ve struggled with depression, extreme anxiety and spent years thinking of myself as broken and unfit. I learned about and began to accept that I’m an HSP, or a highly sensitive person. Whatever the cause, whether genetic or learned over time, I am an introvert, who has continuously tried to be the extrovert that I thought everyone expected me to be.  I was constantly at war with myself, feeling unworthy of the good things in my life, wondering what was wrong with me, and why I couldn’t reach my unthinkable dream of being just like everyone else.  In a word, Normal.

My cancer has given me a second chance at life. With the help of a therapist whose specialty was treating trauma, I had already begun the journey.  There was much healing to be done, both from the surgical standpoint and from years of blaming, hating, and abusing myself, because I was different and didn’t seem to fit in anywhere.

I can say with confidence that the most effective part of the healing process has been my memoir writing and allowing myself to relive certain aspects of life.  It has been difficult, but I’ve also discovered the many joyful times I spent with my parents, who unable to cope with their own lives, abused me and my brothers.  I’m learning about forgiveness. I’m learning to love myself and that I am worthy, and a good person.

I’m still at work on my memoir and cannot say how long it will take me to finish it. I need time to navigate through my memories and often need to take breaks between the intense chapters in order to reground myself. Being able to laugh at myself and to be joyful about my newest perceptions is constantly rewarding me.  When I’m finished writing my life and it hopefully becomes a book, I will be most happy if those who read my words will find within them, peace and a new perspective on suffering.

Are you writing a memoir or keeping a journal?  Are you finding it easy or difficult to write your stories?  Do you feel that writing about your life is an opportunity to heal the most painful parts of your journey? 

Filed Under: Books, Childhood, family, Gratefulness, Life, love, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, stories, Time, Writing Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Another New Year

September 1, 2012 By

Photo by Barbara Germershausen, August 29, 2012

It’s been busy around C’ville this past week.  While the public schools opened their doors over a week and a half ago, last weekend, brought the University students back to town. Traffic is crazy and from now on, Fridays and Saturdays will be party nights at the Fraternities and Sororities just a couple of blocks away. Fortunately, we rarely are bothered by them on our street.  This weekend is the first home football game of the year and everyone is in high spirits.  As I write this I can hear the UVA Marching Band practicing just over the rise.  I love it!

Labor Day has always been my own, personal New Year.  January first is great, but it doesn’t hold the same celebratory meaning in my book.  As a kid I loved school and when the end of August arrived, I couldn’t think of anything else. Mom always got me a new dress and shoes, a few pencils, a notebook or two, and maybe a new lunchbox. I loved learning, except for math, which always made me “knots-in-my-stomach anxious.”

Even though I’m not going back to any school at the moment, I did get to soak in the excitement of just that earlier in August when I took my grandkids shopping for their back to school needs.  Zoe, especially was excited, just as I had been at her age.  But things have changed a lot since I was in grade school, when all I had to bring on the first day of school were my pencils, a notebook, and my lunch.

Zoe and Noah’s school provided them each with a list of necessities in July. It included rolls of paper towels, boxes if tissues for runny noses, tape, crayons, colored markers, pens, pencils, lots of notebooks, graph paper, loose leaf paper, pens, pencils, scissors, index cards, poster board, rulers, compasses, and I’ve forgotten what else.  I was in shock when I saw the list and I hope all that stuff is supposed to last the whole year. I had no idea what going back to school meant in terms of the dollars these days. Wow!

It’s also a new year politically speaking.  Political ads have gotten nastier and more money is being spent by both parties than ever before.  Even though I’m trying to stay away from getting involved, I caught myself yelling at the television the other night.  The dogs looked like they wanted to hide and Bill had a big smirk on his face.  I got caught!  This woman who pretends not to care, who smiles her way through the worst of it, got hooked. I don’t like it.

There is a wonderful story that most of you have probably heard, about a boy who tells his grandfather that there is a big fight going on inside of him and he doesn’t know what to do.  The grandfather explains that there are two wolves living inside of him. One wolf is hateful, and can cause wars inside of every person who walks the earth.  The other wolf is filled with love, peace, and tranquility.  When the boy asked which wolf would win the battle raging in his heart, his grandfather answered, “The one you feed.”

I choose to feed the wolf of love.  My ranting and raving at the television gets me nowhere and sends a lot of negative energy out into the world, which gathers with all the other negative energy, causing hatred.  I’ve renewed my promise to stay above the fray by blacking out ad time on TV and carefully screening all phone calls, especially around dinner time. I like to enjoy my food and digest it in peace. And, I’ve blocked someone on my Facebook page who is voting for the same candidate that I am, but who spews out hateful messages using extremely colorful language. I was planning on unblocking her once the election is over, but I’m rethinking that.

When It’s possible, I will have civilized conversations about why I’m choosing to vote for my particular candidate, and if it isn’t possible I’ll simply let it go.  I’ll write letters that may help to change someone’s mind. And best of all when the day comes, I’ll go out and vote.

Photograph by Barbara Germershausen, August,2012.

This past Wednesday, President Obama, visited our fair city. Traffic was a nightmare and getting anywhere was impossible.  I don’t do well in crowds, so I chose to stay home and watch on television as he spoke.  I was touched by many of the things he told his live audience of over six thousand people, especially the numerous UVA students who were there.  He told them that this election and all of those to come, should be more important to them than anything  else.  These young people are the future of this country and many of them don’t like what they see ahead. When a small group of protestors marched by and the audience began to chant, “Four More Years,” the President stopped them saying, “Don’t chant! Just go out and vote!”

So now you know who I’m voting for. As if you couldn’t tell.  It’s okay if you don’t like my choice but I’ll be delighted if you do.  We all have the right to vote and to choose the candidate we like the most.  I’d like to see all of us stop fighting and spreading hatred.  That goes for both parties.  Please, let’s feed the wolf of love.

My friend and yoga teacher, Barb Germershausen took theses photos.  She’s a volunteer at Obama’s campaign office here.  She got to stand in the front row, smack dab in front of him, and after he spoke, she got to shake his hand!

Photograph by Barbara Germershausen, August 29, 2012

Filed Under: Life, love, Mental Health, Navigating Through Life, War Tagged With: , , , , ,

Change

August 25, 2012 By

Looking out my kitchen window, I notice the leaves on the dogwood in my neighbor’s yard are no longer their deep summer green.  They are blotched with spots of rusty-red and the tree’s tiny berries are beginning to blush.  It’s late August.  In a bit over a week it will be Labor Day and though the earth’s rotation around the sun won’t yet proclaim it to be autumn, there is an overwhelming and unmistakable feeling that summer is indeed over.  I call this time of year, Late Summer, a season unto itself.  It overlaps both summer and fall, and unlike spring, which pushes itself headlong into the heat, this season holds back, hesitating, as though it cannot make up its mind as to which direction to take. It brings us the warm spells we call Indian Summer, along with chilly days when I wrap myself in a sweater and don socks to keep my feet warm.  Evenings can be frosty and most nights I cover the houseplants that are still thriving outdoors during daylight hours.

I’ve been noticing small daily changes for several weeks now.  A brilliant red leaf on the stairs outside my studio has given away the slow shift of seasons. I look up and down the street for its origin, but can’t find the tree that has sent it my way. The days are shorter and the afternoon light has taken on a soft, golden glow as the sun steadily sinks a bit more to the south each day.  Shadows extend themselves as if stretching before settling in for a nap. The nights are crisp. I sleep with windows wide open, welcoming fresh air and the sounds of night into my room.  Every weekday morning at eight-fifteen sharp, I listen for the laughter of children as they gather just down the street, waiting for the yellow bus that will whisk them away to school.  I’ve missed their voices all summer and welcome back this joyous morning sound.

This is my very favorite time of year.  Spring is always absolutely gorgeous and the color is breathtaking here in Central Virginia, but it only leads to the sizzle of summer, which I am not a fan of.  I do love spring and in March, enjoy cleaning up the garden of its winter dreariness. I get excited as local nurseries open their doors.  I pick and choose what to add to that bit of emptiness over there, next to the day lilies. There are always places that need replanting and I am happy to do it as the energy of new life spreads across the land.

But in late summer there is a slowness that takes the place of that chaotic summer energy.  My body slows as well and by late afternoon my yawns grow wider and noisier.  I begin wanting to go to bed a little earlier than I do in summer.  And my choice in what to wear is beginning to change as well. I’m drawn to long pants versus cropped ones.  A light sweater or hoody in the early morning when I walk the dogs is now sometimes necessary.

My tiny vegetable garden still provides us with fresh tomatoes, sweet peppers and eggplant, while local apples are beginning to appear at the Farmer’s Market.  I already miss those scrumptious, juicy peaches I’ve turned into smoothies and eaten out of hand for the past few months and summer tomatoes will be gone once a hard freeze sets in.  Soon I’ll be enjoying winter squash and lots of roots roasting in a pan sprinkled with fresh chopped garlic and rosemary.  Hearty soups and stews are just around the corner. I always look forward to the peace and settled in feeling I have in October, but this year I’m having a hard time hanging on to that thought.  I’m never ready for the commercial race that will soon begin as we are coaxed into spending our money on the various holidays, stacked up like cord wood, between now and the start of the new year.  I am also not ready for the political fray that has already begun here in Virginia. We’re one of those swing states and our phones are already ringing off their hooks with calls from politicos trying to get our vote.  The local airwaves are filled with the images and words of both parties, dividing us even further, with their insulting attacks on each other. I have difficulty with negativity and this is certainly the season for it.  I will vote, as every citizen of this country should, but I’m not happy with what we have to endure in order to do so.

Despite all of that, I’m looking forward to the scent of wood smoke wafting through the evening hours as temperatures begin to drop … the crunch of falling leaves underfoot … and the continuous changes that each day brings as the season turns.  I wouldn’t be happy in a climate that always stays the same.  If we don’t have ice and snow, we can’t appreciate the warmth of June and July. And if we don’t have our sad moments, we won’t  know what happiness is.

Are you noticing the changes taking place around you?  What is your favorite season and why?  Would you be happy if everything always stayed the same?

Filed Under: Life, Navigating Through Life, The Garden, The Seasons, Time Tagged With: , , ,

On Winning And Losing

July 21, 2012 By

Peony #10, © Joan Z. Rough

Truth is best served by recognizing a viewpoint as only a viewpoint, and refraining from taking that extra step of regarding it as true to the exclusion of all other views.  In other words, all views–even correct views–are best held gently, rather than grasped firmly.  

Andrew Olendzki, Blinded by Views

I first picked up a camera in the early eighties.  Afraid of anything technical, I often asked my  husband to take photos for me. Not interested in people photos or huge, magnificent landscapes, I was drawn to the small miracles that nature had to offer in the shape of a lily or a rose.  After being told how easy it would be for me to learn how to use a camera, I took a few workshops and was hooked.

I had a background in painting and was slowly growing weary of the weaving, spinning and natural dying I’d been involved in for years.  I became fascinated by microscopic views of everything, from the powdery wings of a dead butterfly to the patterns found in rock formations.  But most of all I was drawn to flowers.  The closer I could get, the more abstract my photos became. Encouraged by family, friends and other artists, I put together a body of work. To see what would happen, I entered ten of my images into the Virginia Commission for the Arts 1989 Prize for the Visual Arts, in the category of photography.

Day lily #20, © Joan Z. Rough

In the meantime, I had recently moved to Charlottesville in 1985, which has always been a mecca for artists of every ilk, from writers, to painters, and theatre people.  In this town there is a festival for almost every genre of art.  In November we have the Virginia Film Festival, in March there is the Festival of the Book, and in May, the folks who put together the LOOK3 Festival of the Photograph, hang the work of photographers from all over the country in local galleries and outdoors, in the trees on the Downtown Mall.

As a newbie in town I went about trying to become a part of the art community.  I am an introvert and it was difficult. Afraid of my own shadow, I’d grit my teeth and go to various gatherings to meet other artists and to see what was happening. I was shy and when I opened my mouth to speak, the words often spilled out in a garble of nonsense that even I couldn’t understand.  I felt that my work was unworthy and that I had little to offer the community. Rather than push myself forward I kept myself in the shadows, being grateful for any bit of encouragement.

One evening at a gallery opening, I met an elderly man known locally for his close-up photography of insects and plants.  We started talking and he invited Bill and I to his home to see his work.  I brought some of my own images along to see if he could give me some feedback. He and his wife were friendly enough, serving us a bold red wine and a few nibbles.  They lived in a lovely home tucked into the woods and I felt that I had finally made a friend.  He showed us his Cibachrome prints, all beautiful. There was a shot of a honeybee gathering pollen, close-ups of a variety of beetles and images of flowers. All were perfect specimen shots, ideal for a coffee-table book about the garden or as illustrations in a guide to insects.  He also proudly showed us his massive collection of romance novels that he had written under a pen name.

When he asked to see my work, I brought out a dozen or so glossy cibachromes of my flower studies, so very close-up that you might not realize they were flowers. Similar in perspective to Georgia O’keeffe’s paintings, some viewers described them as resembling water colors.  There were blurry areas and sharply focused lines of the edge of a flower petal or the inner landscape of a daylily surrounded by a pool of pure, sensual color. The first words out of his mouth were, “These are not photographs. They are an abomination.”

As I remember, the conversation went down hill from there and quickly downing the remains of my wine we made a hasty exit.  Although I was somewhat used to rejections of my work as a weaver and fiber artist, I had never had anyone make a comment about my work before in that tone or in those words.  All of the people who had critiqued my visual work in the past had given me constructive suggestions and ideas on how to make my work better.  This man brought to mind my father who would often berate me for not following directions or listening to how things are to be done. This was the first time I had ever been trashed by a stranger. I was devastated, in tears and ready to roll a huge boulder to the entrance of my cave where I would hide and never come out into the light of day again.

Iris #24, © Joan Z. Rough

It took me a while to lick my oozing wound and to bring about some healing. But a few weeks later, a letter arrived from the Virginia Commission for the Arts, saying that I had been given an Honorary Mention for the 1989 Virginia Prize for Photography, by Edward Sherman, of the well-known Benin Gallery, in New York City.

Everything changed.  I went on to become a member at the McGuffey Art Center, here in Charlottesville and those photos, along with other bodies of my work,  went on to be shown individually and in one-person exhibitions in museums and galleries across the country.  And it wasn’t too many months before the phone rang, and the wife of the old guy who had trashed my work, asked me for my advise on getting her husband’s work to the attention of people outside of the community.

Despite occasionally feeling unworthy of being an artist and a writer, I’ve worked hard at not letting the views of others take me down. They are only opinions after all and if I let that happen, I would lose my very being. It’s been a hard lesson, but one of the most crucial if I am to do the work my heart brings to me.

How do you handle criticism and the views of others?  Have you ever been in a similar situation?

Filed Under: Friendships, Gratefulness, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, photography, The Garden Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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