To Sell Or Not To Sell

September 23, 2014 By
My Last Bike

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.

DSCF0620Like 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: , ,

Changing With The Seasons

September 15, 2014 By

IMG_0490Here we are again, in that beautiful time of year when leaves start to change their colors, nights call for soft blankets, and chilly mornings make me run to the attic to unpack a few cozy sweaters.

I LOVE this time of year. Though spring is always magnificent here in Virginia, with it’s colorful blossoms and the promise of new life, summer, usually leaves me exhausted with its busy pace that eventually drains my energy. The best parts of summer for me are those sun warmed tomatoes picked directly from the garden, and sweet, juicy peaches that make my hot weather breakfasts of yogurt, fruit and nuts, especially delicious. Now the peaches are getting scarce and when I can find them they’re mealy in texture. So I’m turning over with the season, moving to warmer breakfast foods like left over soup, bowls of hot cereal, or eggs and bacon.

DSCF0621My writing muse is fighting with my garden genie, which is calling me to spend more time outside amongst my plants. I’ve dozens of baby hellebores that need to be dug up and moved, lots of weeding, and the roses that have gone wild over the warmer months need pruning. In the summer, working in the garden is an early morning affair, but now cooler temperatures lure me out all day long. Thank goodness both are creative activities.

The arrival of autumn encourages me to slow down and get ready for the cold months, when I spend most of my time indoors writing, and reading. When I’m cold, I like nothing better than a long soak in my big tub filled with bubbles and the scent of lavender. Hot steaming cups of tea that include warming herbs and spices, like cardamom, ginger, and cinnamon, sipped in front of a crackling fire also will do the trick. I’m going to bed earlier now, and get up later, with the sun. I’m yearning to cook stews, braises, and soups with root vegetables like parsnips, beets, sweet potatoes, and carrots that warm my soul.

On my morning walks, I notice squirrels stashing acorns away for the winter. Birds are fewer and quieter than they have been. Lilliput, my cat, is playing her seasonal game of in and out, unable to decide if it is more pleasant inside or out in the yard. The dogs walk at a much brisker pace cutting our walk time from about twenty minutes to fifteen. Once the real cold arrives they’ll walk even faster, wanting to come back in the house to warm their small bodies, in five minutes. Lilliput will go out to do her business and perhaps stalk a blue jay, but will be back in a flash if no bird are about.

Change can be hard. As a child I moved with my family from house to house, like a gypsy, as fast as my father could build them and sell them. I had little sense of what home really was. I’m ready to stay put now, especially at this time of year, when my feather comforter and warm wooly socks invite me to curl up on the sofa with a good book.

Do you enjoy the change of seasons? What is your favorite season and why?

Filed Under: Change, The Garden, The Seasons Tagged With: , , ,

Expert Or Storyteller?

September 9, 2014 By

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In much of the reading I do to stay tuned in on how to have a lot of followers on my blog and build a following for my upcoming memoir, it is said that you need to be an expert on what you are writing about.

My Scrivener dictionary describes an expert as someone who is, “a person who has a comprehensive and authoritative knowledge of or skill in a particular area: experts in child development | a financial expert.”

In order to be an expert, you have to know about something a lot of other people don’t know about and need or want instruction in. Like how to train your dog so that he or she won’t attack the mailman, or how to make a loaf of sour dough bread that tastes heavenly.

In Australian Locker Hooking, A New Approach to a Traditional Craft, the first book I wrote and published back in 1980, I was definitely taking on the role of an expert. My book was an instruction manual with photographs and technical drawings on how to use raw wool that has been freshly shorn to make beautiful hand made rugs. I was an authority. Those who bought my book wanted to know how to make the things I made, often from the wool of their own sheep.

Now I’m writing a memoir.  ME, MYSELF AND MOM, a Journey Through Love, Hate and Healing, is about a portion of my life, during which I invited my mother to come live with my husband and me. Her health was failing, and she needed care. I was not an expert on eldercare when I invited her into my home, and when she died seven years later, I was still not an expert on eldercare.

Seven more years have passed, and I still don’t feel as though I am an ”expert” on eldercare, or how to build a relationship with an aging parent. If you read my book and try to follow what I did in order deal with your aging parent, you could be making many BIG mistakes and end up hating me for sending you in the wrong direction. What works for one person, most often doesn’t work for another.

In my mind, writing memoir is rather like being a scribe or a storyteller. It’s a record of what happened from the writer’s perspective.  It is not necessarily a how-to-book.

When I read memoir, my favorite genre, I am interested in being told a story and being inspired by how a particular person managed to get through a certain period of time in their lives. I am not interested in learning the steps they took to arrive where they are today. What I want, is to know is that I am not alone in my happiness or travails.

Making difficult decisions about how to care for aging parents is something many of us will face, as we ourselves grow older. As I continue to rewrite my memoir, my intention is to inspire adult children who may be taking on that tricky journey, while they try to go about living their own lives. It’s a difficult task.

Mine is the story of why and how I tried to care for my mother. As hard as it was,  I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to learn so much about myself and human nature.

Are you an expert or a storyteller? How do you feel about being one or the other?

Filed Under: Caring for an aging parent, Expertise, Memoir, Writing Tagged With: , , ,

Writing Memoir Is A Mixed Bag

September 5, 2014 By

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Check out my guest post on Madeline Sharples, blog, Choices.

It’s about the difficulties of writing the hard stuff and the final reward of being able to see life in a new way.

Filed Under: Abusive Relationships, Memoir, The Process, Writing Tagged With: , , ,

The Most Important Words In Any Language

September 2, 2014 By

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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:
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