Navigating Through Life — Joan Z Rough

To Sell Or Not To Sell

September 23, 2014 By Joan Rough

My Last Bike

Wanting to up our exercise choices, Bill and I bought us a pair of bikes eight or so years age. We were both members of gyms and worked out on a regular basis. I also did some flat water kayaking on the peaceful river we lived on at the time. Never really a fan of gyms and exercising indoors, I was interested in being outside where there were no membership fees or waiting in line to use a particular machine.

We took our bikes with us when we went to the Outer Banks on vacation every fall, where there are bike lanes along a straight expanse of road. Traffic at that time of year is always light and I felt quite safe when riding there. Along with beach walks everyday, I was getting plenty of exercise, and I loved being out in the chilly air with the wind in my hair and the sound of waves crashing ashore in the distance.

The biggest problem with riding my bike here at home was that there were no great places to ride. Living out in the country, the roads were narrow and curvy, and we knew someone who’d been badly injured when she was struck by a car, as she was biking along one of them.

Sometimes I loaded my bike in my car and took it to a county park, where I rode. But after a while that seemed like a pain in the butt. We lived on a lovely cul de sac that was long enough to get some speed up and also had a few little hills. I happily rode back and forth, burning calories for a while until I got bored with that.

As many things do, the bikes started gathering dust when we weren’t at the beach. When we moved here into town, where we thought we’d ride them more, they took up too much space in our much smaller garage. Though there are some bike lanes here in the city, I’ve seen too many near misses to get up the courage to launch myself into the community on my bike. So, our nice shiny bikes gathered even more dust.Once ion a while we’d haul them out, wipe off the cobwebs, and pump up the tires. They were ready for a spin around the block, which never seemed to happen.

Last year we decided that it would be best to sell them. We were too busy, or was it lazy, to make the effort to get them ready for rides we’d never take. This past week, Bill finally hauled them out, cleaned them up, and listed them on Craig’s List. I took one last wobbly ride down the driveway and back, just to be sure I wanted to part with my loyal stead. I decided my long morning walks were much safer.

But when the first call came in just after Bill had listed them, I felt very sad. It seemed like the end of an era and my youth. I felt older than my soon to be 72 years, and like I was giving up too easily on my need to stay young and fit.

My bike sold immediately. Bill’s is still in the garage, but I expect it to go soon. Feeling the same way I do, he and I mourned our losses together at Sunday brunch, over a scrumptious frittata, crab cakes, salad, and a Bloody Mary.

I have a friend, a few years younger than I am, who recently bought a new car. She was excited telling me about it. But the conversation ended when she added, “This is my last car.” I was taken aback. Her comment probably has something to do with the way I’m feeling about my bike, that isn’t mine anymore. I’m not that old, but the fact is I have to, “That was my last bike.” I do not intend to get another.

A few days later, I’m now thinking that it’s best that I did sell it. I wouldn’t want it to go unused and be something I’d trip over when trying to find something in the garage. I’m not giving up on my need to stay fit and young. I’m being realistic. I will not say that the car I have now, or that the next one I buy will be my last. But I am allowing myself to feel comfortable with the cross trainer in my studio that keeps me dry when it rains or snows, and the magical walks I go on when the weather is gorgeous.

Like right now. The sun is shining, the sky is cloudless, turning leaves are drifting down in a light breeze, and a flock of starlings are gathering in the trees for their long flight south. I’m putting on a sweater, and am heading out down the street. Selling my bike was not the end of an era. It was an end of a season and the beginning of another. There are many more still left to be lived … a little bit differently perhaps, but always as wonderful as ever.

Filed Under: Change, Exercising, Health and Wellnes, Navigating Through Life, The Seasons, Walking, wonderings Tagged With: Aging, Intentions, loss

The Most Important Words In Any Language

September 2, 2014 By Joan Rough

When I was a small child learning the ins and outs of getting on in the world, my parents taught me that “please” and “thank you” were the most important words I would ever use.

Up until a certain point, we’re given everything we want or need automatically. All we have to do is cry, reach, or point. The cookie, stuffed animal, or rattle then become ours. It takes a while to figure out why it would be any different when we begin to speak. But as we get older, we realize that, “I want,” is not good enough to get a positive response.

When we move beyond, “mama” and “dada,” we’re taught that if we want something, we need to ask for it politely. Reminders are necessary for a while, but soon every child learns how to say, “bitte” and “danka,” “por favor” and “gracias,” or “s’il vous plait” and “merci”, depending on what part of world they live in.

There are other words that are as equally important in my life, and I expect in other’s lives as well. They are the words, “yes” and “no.”

Those two words have often been a problem for me. As a toddler, if I said “no,” when I was told to be quiet, I was yelled at or swatted for being disobedient. If I stopped making a ruckus, or said, “yes,” to anything I was asked to do, I was applauded. As a result I learned that “yes” is like saying please and thank you. It’s the polite thing to do. And the word “no,” comes out being something like an insult.

As a young mother, when I was asked to collect money on the block for the Heart Fund? I said, “Sure!” Make cupcakes for the second grade class picnic? “Why not?” Prepare a main course for a neighborhood dinner party when I felt overwhelmed cooking for two small fussy eaters? “Of Course!”

Later, I figured out that saying, “yes” all the time was not always a good thing to do. But still I agreed to do whatever was asked of me. The result was I had little time to take care of myself. There were no quick naps after spending an entire night taking care of of a sick child. There was no time to read a book, or go for a walk by myself.

But how could I say, “no?”

If I did say that dirty word, I felt guilty. It would be an insult to the person who asked me for a favor. I didn’t think any one would like me. I loved being liked. Saying “yes” was a way to be included in a group, a way to make friends, and feel important.

In my sixties, I found out that saying, “no,” wasn’t the end of the world. Most people still liked me even though I’d said a naughty word. There were always one or two who would piss and moan about my refusal, but they were just trying to take something off of their own plates and put it on mine. Those folks are always there in the background, waiting for someone like me to come along. They know from a mile away who will always say “yes.”

Now in my seventies,”no,” has become just as important to me as please and thank you. I still say “yes” often. But these days, it’s because I really want to do something to help someone out, return a kindness, and/or simply want to take part part in something I’d enjoy doing. Guilt rarely raises its ugly head. When I say “no”, it’s because I’m being kind to myself. It’s because I might need a nap, or time to finish a piece of writing I’m working on. It may also be because I just don’t want to do what’s being asked of me. Whatever it is, I no longer need to make any excuses for myself. I’m in tune with what I need and what I can give.

Do you have problems with the words “yes” and “no”?
How do they make you feel?

Filed Under: Growing Up, Navigating Through Life, The Journey Tagged With: Moving Forward

A Letter to My Mother: Posthumous Reconciliation? And A Book Give Away

August 19, 2014 By Joan Rough

Always interested in reading about other writers’s spiritual journeys, I recently picked up a copy of Saloma Miller Furlong’s second memoir, Bonnet Strings: An Amish Woman’s Ties to Two Worlds. I just finished reading it and highly recommend you take a look at it.

Next week, one of my readers who leaves a comment on this page, will have a chance to receive a free copy of that book. Just leave a comment. I’ll pick a name at random and perhaps you will be notified that Saloma’s book is on it’s way to you.

Currently, Saloma is at work on a letter to her mother in book form, in which she tries to reconcile with her mother, who is now dead. Both Saloma and I have had difficult mothers to deal with during our lives. It is through this new writing, that Saloma is working her way to understanding and forgiving a mother, who like mine, used her children as scapegoats.

Without further ado, I welcome and thank Saloma for being my guest today and sharing her story.

I have seen Joan around the online world several times. I decided it was time we “meet,” after reading about her incredible journey. Though I have not cared for an aging parent, I can relate to Joan’s story in many ways. I eagerly await the publication of her book. I am honored to be here today. Thank you, Joan, for hosting me.

We’ve all heard the bittersweet stories of people reckoning with their mortality when they are about to leave this world. They took stock of their lives and asked to speak with someone with whom they’ve not spoken to for years. In their waning days or hours, reconciliation and forgiveness happen. The bitter of the story is all those wasted years when reconciliation could have happened. The sweet of the story is that reconciliation did happen.

When my mother was dying, I kept hoping she would come to the place of needing reconciliation, when she would gather her sons and daughters around her and deal with any unfinished business with each of us, alone.

I was hoping there would be a time when she would let her guard down, so that I could tell her how I’ve had a hard time reconciling my memories of her when I was small and innocent from those when I was in my teens.

I know Mem loved me when I was little. I remember her bathing me in the galvanized tub in the living room in winter. After the bath, she would sit me on her big, soft lap, wrap me in a warm towel she had warmed by the woodstove, dry me off, and then dress me in the fresh-smelling clothing she had laid out for me. I remember standing on a stool, helping her knead bread. I remember being terrified of leaving her when I started Kindergarten.

I also remember the sound of her solid footsteps from the time I was a six, and had just said something she perceived as backtalk. Those footsteps would go to the china cabinet, where she would take down the latest whip or leather belt. She would stand there and in her most forceful voice, demand that I, “come here.”

I could not run. I could not hide. I could not resist that voice. I had to step over to her, where she would raise my Amish dress and slam that whip or belt across the backs of my legs, until I thought I would lose my mind from the overpowering pain.

When Mem lay dying, I wanted to hear her admit that she had been taking out her own frustrations on me when she whipped me. That she had harmed me, instead of “doing it for my own good.” I wanted to hear her say, “I am so sorry.”

But that is not what happened. Mem told us not to cling, and said it was her time to go. It seemed that she couldn’t duck out of this world fast enough. There was no chance of reconciling with her. Even before that day, she did not want to dig into the past. “For what good would it do?” she would say.

When I said my last good-byes to my mother, I told her that I would think of her in her heavenly home, and love her always. I wrote her a letter the night she was dying, because I could not be by her side. When I read it now, it sounds like I had no unresolved issues with her. However nine years later, I realize I’ve never reconciled the mother who was so nurturing and caring, with the one who was so harsh and cruel.

In an attempt to reconcile with Mem, I am writing a letter to her. I sift through memories and reflect on them. I do this, not knowing “what good it will do.” I don’t know if I will have a better understanding of her, but that is my hope. I like to think that there is still time to find resolution, even though she is not here in person.

So far, I find the act of writing to be powerful. Instead of sitting down in the inner reaches of my unconscious, I am recalling the past, allowing it to surface, one piece at a time. I am examining my memories of Mem, my relationship with her, and ultimately, my life.

As I write this, I don’t yet know who my audience is. Right now, that is not as important to me as doing the writing. Maybe I will decide to publish it. Or maybe someday one of my sons or grandchildren will find it, and at least learn something about their lineage.

I cried when I read the quote, by Christina Baldwin, that Joan uses at the top of her home page. I recognized it as the compelling reason for why I feel the need to write down my memories. “Making story of our family history doesn’t mean we change the realities of our forebears’ lives … we don’t turn a thief into a pillar of virtue … but we learn to carry the story differently so the lineage can heal.” What a beautiful thing to hope for: “for the lineage to heal.” What more is there?

Are there issues with your mother you wish to come to terms with? Do you think it is ever too late?

Saloma Miller Furlong is the author of two books, Why I Left the Amish and Bonnet Strings: An Amish Woman’s Ties to Two Worlds. Her story is featured in the PBS documentaries “The Amish” and “The Amish: Shunned” on American Experience. You can read more of Saloma Furlong’s biography by following the link.

Website: http://salomafurlong.com/
Blog: http://salomafurlong.com/aboutamish/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SalomaFurlong
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4487564.Saloma_Miller_Furlong
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Saloma-Miller-Furlong/e/B004SXYJXE/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Filed Under: Abusive Relationships, Books, family, Healing, Memoir, Navigating Through Life Tagged With: An Amish Woman's Ties to Two Worlds, Bonnet Strings, Saloma Miller Furlong

Finding Forgiveness While Writing Memoir

July 21, 2014 By Joan Rough

Hi Folks,
I’m over at Kathy Pooler’s, Memoir Writer’s Journey, today with a piece about how I found forgiveness for my mother as I wrote my memoir, ME, MYSELF, AND MOM, A Journey Through Love, Hate. and Healing. I’m working on the second draft right now. As soon as that’s done, I’ll ship it off to a developmental editor.