Rejuvenation On The River

August 13, 2013 By

DSCF0305I’ve had time to myself for two weeks. My husband went off on his own adventures, while I decided to adventure further into my writing. Doing that helped me to discover new things about myself.  About being alone. About what I can get done when I decide to do it. And how the work, the writing, can leave me gasping for air.

I’ve always known that I’m an introvert, but often wondered if I could go a bit further and be the hermit I once thought I’d like to be. When I first visited the shores of Ireland back in the ‘80s, I thought how wonderful it would be to spend a winter on the rugged, windswept, west coast, in a tiny cottage overlooking the Atlantic.  There were few houses in the area that I loved most. The only sounds were of the sea, the wind, sheep calling to one another, and an occasional barking dog. I  felt that this would be the closest to God that anyone could ever get.  I dreamed about trying it.

But all it took was one week here at home without the love of my life, to convince me that I’m not made for that kind of life. I’m not introverted enough to dream again of crawling into a cave somewhere on a lonely cliff watching waves pummel the shore, spending every moment alone, contemplating God and his linty home in my navel.

Though I’ve been alone for two weeks a number of times, it has never been at a time when I’ve been so drawn up into myself as these last two have been. I’ve not written memoir before and didn’t realize how reliving difficult times might affect me. But I had a mission to write as much as I could during the time that Bill was away, hopefully finding myself closer to the end of my first draft.

In my first week here at home, I wrote some 6,000 words in three chapters.  They are three of the toughest ones I’ve gotten through and there are still a few more to go before I can concentrate on the good parts … finding myself and beginning to make major changes in my life. Reliving difficult times is hard enough just letting them flash by in an instant. But spending one week all alone, writing about incidents that were some of the worst moments of my life broke the bank. I’m one  who likes to edit as I go along, hoping to get as close to an imperfect, perfect draft as I can.

On the fifth day out, I knew I would need a break. I did not realize that my self induced hermitage would leave me feeling so low. I needed some time out. I spent more time fantasizing about what I might do to have some fun than I did writing. I thought about all of the things that might bring me back up from the past into the present day where there is fresh air, funny people abound, and I could begin to refill my now empty tank of energy. I made a dinner date with a friend, went to a movie, and wished I was with Bill or a bunch of friends who were gathered together out in New Mexico.  But I had made a deal with myself and I knew I had stuff I needed to do.

Still daydreaming about what else I could be doing to make myself feel better, I remembered the kayaks that Bill and used to have when we lived in our last home on the river.  Early summer mornings were the best time to be out on the water, before too many fishermen and rowers made it feel like rush hour and the wildlife all disappeared for the rest of the day.

Remembering that the kayaks are still at our disposal,  now owned by our son, I decided to give him a call to see if he’d like to join me for a morning excursion out on the river. Living here in townfor just a bit over three years, I haven’t thought of my little yellow boat until then.  And knowing that Bill was spending some quality time with our daughter and grandkids in North Carolina, I thought that kayaking with Mark would be a great way of being with just him, without the rest of the family taking up so much of my attention.

Great Blue Heron © Mark Rough

Great Blue Heron
© Mark Rough

Sunday at 8 AM found us on our way to the river.  By 8:30 we were on the water. It was warm, sunny, and the surface of the river reflected every leaf and blade of grass along the shore. There were few fishermen about and no rowers. I decided to take Mark up Ivy Creek, which feeds into the South Fork Rivanna River, where I used to paddle when I felt like being completely alone.  He’d never been there before and enjoyed the abundance of wildlife we saw … several bald eagles, herons, both Great Blue and Green, an Osprey eating its breakfast at the top of an old dead tree, turtles by the gazillion, kingfishers, and so much more.  Mark was a super paddling companion.  Not in a rush to get somewhere, just casually paddling to see what we could see and being in the moment as dragonflies and butterflies flew near.  I was touched by those old mother feelings,  being with my son and being able to share with him a place I’ll always love. It was a beautiful morning in every respect and when I got home I was ready to plow back into those three chapters. I edited and rewrote them several times, then sent them off to my writing coach for his approval.

I miss the river and being able to go out the backdoor and into the watery world of rivers and streams any time I

Osprey © Mark Rough

Osprey
© Mark Rough

choose. Still I love living in the city where I’m finding it easier to balance my needs. I’m within walking distance to the University, can hear the marching band warm up for the coming football season, while sitting in my garden. Yet I’m able to able to drive a short distance and find myself peacefully floating through wooded countryside for the rejuvenation I so desperately need as I work my way through this ongoing, sometimes difficult project.

I’ve spent years searching for this balance. It could be my age, but I no longer dream about that cottage on the coast of Ireland. I have everything I need right here.  Next time I’m having difficulty keeping at my writing, you’ll be able to find me in a small, yellow kayak drifting down the river.

The bird photography above was taken by my son, Mark. If I ever had a dream for him it was just this, to love and respect the natural world around us, as he does.

The photo of me at the top of the page was taken by my friend, Susan Preston.

 

Filed Under: family, Memoir, Mental Health, Navigating Through Life, photography, Writing Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Being Left Behind

July 30, 2013 By

DSCF1059Just two days ago I was feeling envious and abandoned. Bill went off to music camp to learn more about playing his uke in the mountains of North Carolina, very close to where our daughter and grandkids live. He’ll be gone for two weeks with one or two other adventures added on to his agenda.

Besides that, my next door neighbor, who always keeps me laughing, is away for the summer. And special friend, Sharon, with whom I talk on a weekly basis is in Taos, New Mexico, on a writing retreat led by Jennifer Louden. That is where this whole crazy writing project began in 2010, and where I met Sharon and a whole bunch of other great women. I kind of wish I was there right now.

“So why didn’t you go to Taos or go along with Bill and spend time with the grandkids?” you ask. A few months ago when I felt my memoir beginning to take shape, I decided I would dare myself to have my first draft done by September first. It was a test of sorts to get myself to either put up or shut up.

I knew that if I really wanted to write my memoir, and get the first draft done on deadline, I’d have to stay home and do the work. I wouldn’t be able to do any traveling. I figured that if I gave in and said yes to a few friends who wanted me to join them in Taos, and/or go off on some other adventure with Bill, I would know I wasn’t serious about my writing project. Conversely, if I stayed home and did what I promised myself I would do, I’d feel very proud of myself and believe in myself a whole lot more than I used to.

So here I am at my computer and writing up a storm. I’ve written two chapters over the last few days and the words keep coming.  I took a break Sunday afternoon and went to a movie.  It took a good twenty minutes into the film for me to shut off my writer’s mind and begin  enjoying “The Way Way Back.” Later, I spent another couple of hours writing. The dogs were asleep at my feet and I was flying in a world of winged words. Oh how good it felt.

For now my envy and abandonment issues are gone. I suppose they could return, but I know I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I want to do, and being true to myself without regret. I’m happy that I held myself to my word. What could be better?

I’ll get to play later on. I’ve added another month on to my deadline. I’m shooting for October 1st.  After that, I’m off on an adventure in London. When I return, the editing and rewriting begins. Great thing to do during a long, cold winter.

By the way, if your looking for a fun movie to see on a hazy, hot and humid afternoon go see, “The Way Way Back.” It’s full of good laughs and made me feel very happy.

Filed Under: Being Creative, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, Retreats, Writing Tagged With: , , ,

Beautifully Blue

July 23, 2013 By
Beautifully Blue © Joan Z. Rough, 2002

Beautifully Blue © Joan Z. Rough, 2002

“This is the way I feel inside. Turmoil in twisted knots. Beautifully blue. And Black. And Purple. A bruise. But one that will heal to be more like the smaller, green outer pages,  Still somewhat chaotic but fresh and very much alive. Still breathing. “

I made this collage in my journal and wrote those words on July 18, 2002.  I was a year into taking care of my mother as her health declined. I invited her to come to live in my house. I thought I could help her through her final years. Bill thought it was a good idea, too.

On a day when Bill was leaving for a week in New York, Mom fell and broke her wrist. I was left alone with her to deal with her pain, her depression, and her growing neediness. It was not a life threatening situation. But it was an inconvenience. I felt overwhelmed and abandoned. I wasn’t ready to be a caretaker. I had no idea what I was doing. I had panic attacks, slept only a few hours each night, worrying about my mother.  I was angry about the disturbance in my life, about Bill being gone. I wanted Mom to go away. I didn’t think about what she was feeling.

It was the beginning of a steep learning curve that brought me to my knees on many occasions. I was constantly confused and wanted out. But at the same time I wanted to take care of her. There were moments when I knew I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. And times when taking care of her meant the world to me.

In the car one day as I was driving Mom to see her doctor, she sighed and said, “If those old trees could talk it would be interesting.”  I was deeply moved by what she said. She never talked about her emotional state during her last few years. I wasn’t ever sure that she was processing what was happening to her. But when she spoke those words, I knew that she was thinking about life and death and the passage of time. Later that evening I took her words and wrote the following poem.

 She Said

“If those old trees could talk it would be interesting.”
And so we sat and listened.
She began to tell her own story
And when she was finished
The trees bowed to her in the wind.
The river never slowed its pace.

Looking back and rereading what I’ve written in my journals, I often feel guilt and heartbreak. But also very grateful. There is beauty in pain as well as healing.

Filed Under: Compassion, Healing, Journaling, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, Poetry, The Journey, Time, Writing Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,

Time Enough

July 17, 2013 By

DSCF0195I began the process of writing my memoir a few years ago. Among my friends are those who have been working on their books for years. But they’re all a lot younger than I am. I might not have “years” to work on mine, so why even start? Approaching my seventieth year, I figured I’d be dead long before I finished it and thought I’d be wasting my time. Afraid that it might be too big a commitment, I worried that I would have to leave behind the other things that I need and enjoy doing. Like gardening, slapping paint onto canvas and watching it magically become a finished painting. Cooking delicious healthy meals, or traveling to places I’d like to revisit or go to for the first time.

But some told me I must do it anyway. They said I have many things to share that would benefit others … especially women.  And there was that voice in my head that I often shut out. It told me that I really didn’t have anything to lose. I kept seeing the word memoir, everywhere. When in bookstores, I’d find myself in the memoir section. Reading newspapers and magazines I often found references to memoir and their growing popularity.  I took all of that to mean that I must proceed.

I started by simply writing down memorable stories from my life. I posted many on them on my blog. Some, I filed away for a rainy day when I planned to haul them out and rework them into something I could share. It was the beginning of scratching that spot on my back that was bugging me.

I kept at it and the irritation went away. I enjoyed the process and found healing for myself as I wrote down stories that I had never shared with anyone except my therapist, my husband, or a few very close friends. I joined a life-writing class and found support and encouragement there. I finally decided that maybe I did have stories that other people  would want to read and made the commitment to write a book.

I had no idea where I was headed but I figured sooner or later I’d find the thread that was lost in my tangle of stories. Conflict grew. I wanted to spend time on writing and finishing my book before my “deathday” came along. But just a year earlier I had decided a new lifestyle was in order. I was exhausted. I needed to slow down, to be present in each moment. I was looking for a more fulfilling life. Could I do both at the same time?

I had spent too many years following the rat race, trying to do too much, too fast, in too little time. My lifelong belief that “when you choose to do something, you do it well or not at all,” was left in the dust by the side of the road. Every now and then I’d stop and ask myself, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I never had an answer.

When my mother said, “Your life is a train wreck,” I denied it. But as I took on her care when her health deteriorated, I began to think that perhaps she was right. There was never enough time for anything I wanted to do. I grew more and more anxious. I was unhappy and angry. I blamed Mom for taking all of my time. I moved faster and faster so that I could take her to the doctor and expand my garden from a quarter an acre of flower beds to a half an acre. I longed for time to read, paint, take naps, and stare into space. The faster I went, the more angry and exhausted I became. That pattern pretty much continued until my mother died and I no longer had her to look after.

The first months were long and hard and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t find anything satisfying to do. I was still moving too fast and beginning to hate the things I once loved doing. When the row of potato plants in the garden were ready to be harvested, it took all of the energy I could muster. All I wanted to do was cry. I knew something was terribly wrong. I felt like I was killing myself. Consumed in grief and anger, it took a few years for me to find myself again and begin to heal the losses I had endured.

I came to understand that throughout my life, I had given much of my power and energy to other people. Of course, I had a family. I wanted to be there for my growing children and to spend time with my husband. I had parents and two brothers I also cared about. I gave them all of myself, saving very little for me.

When my kids left home and I had more time, the pace of my life got faster. I had to make up for the time I’d lost. I had too many things I wanted to do. But mostly I still put others first. My worries about time took on a life of their own.

I brought it all to halt two years ago. No more. Finished. I decided to live each day as if it were my last. No more running around not knowing where I was going. I do only what calls to me. If it doesn’t, I don’t do it. “No” is a very important word. So is “Yes,” under the right circumstances.

I won’t be talked out of what I want unless there is a good reason and it makes sense. Those who are used to my giving way to them, may have a problem with all the above, but I feel much better. I’m learning to make choices that leave me satisfied rather than frustrated and resentful. Sometimes I choose the garden over my book.  Sometimes I take a few days off to play or rest. It’s a balancing act.

My book can’t be rushed. If I don’t finish it before I die, it’s still been a marvelous ride. I’m feeling the passion for living, loving, and writing. There is time enough for it all.

 

Filed Under: Books, Caring for an aging parent, Fear, Healing, Life, Memoir, Mental Health, Time, Writing Tagged With: , , , , ,

Choppy Waters

July 10, 2013 By

DSC01405I’ve been on quite a roll with my memoir writing lately. But suddenly I’m in one of those places, where to move forward even more, means that I must build up my courage and reenter places and times that were cruel and heartbreaking. I’ve been in this situation numerous times in the past as I’ve gone back in time, processing the occasions that brought me to the place on which I stand today. It means remembering and feeling the way I did when both good and horrible things were happening in my life.

The good parts are no problem. Who wouldn’t be willing to revisit the births of their children? As physically painful as those happy occasions can be, they are times of celebration, bringing new life into the world and watching as tiny copies of ourselves take wing and find their own way.

It’s the heart wrenching times that can send me into hurtful funks. But I realize that in order to go where I’m headed, I must enter a roiling sea of emotions and make my way to the opposite shore, where I no longer have to hide from the things that made my life a living hell at times..

By revisiting those dark memories and arriving on the other side, I stand taller, unafraid, and grateful for the chance to move along into my new life. It is a rebirth in which I release myself from the tangle of horrifying events that left me stranded; a broken, needy person.

When I  enter the dark, I find the light and recognize where I am, knowing that I am not all that has happened to me. It is who I am becoming now that is important. It allows me to live each day with joy and forgiveness. It’s a place I never thought I’d find and I’m very grateful to have arrived here.

So this week, I’ll probably spend a few days procrastinating.  I’ll sharpen pencils, clean up the huge mess on my desk, and feel slightly depressed. I’ll listen to my inner critic who seems to think I’m useless and a horrible writer.  When I get tired of  her ranting about how useless I am, I’ll don my Super Woman cape, hold my breath and jump headlong into the mess of living.  I’ll arrive on the other shore with much less baggage, watching her as she tries to catch up with me, rowing a small, leaky boat across the choppy sea.  She’ll eventually make it and will try to torture me with her presence once again. But she’ll still be carrying her oars and hauling the little boat that holds all of her heavy stuff, behind her. I will be freshly bathed and ready to dive into the next waves that roll my way.  She’ll be screaming at me as I go, but I’ll reemerge on the other side once again, even lighter than I was before.

Filed Under: Fear, Healing, Life, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, The Journey, The Sea, Trauma, Writing Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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