All You Can Do

October 12, 2012 By

“All you can do is all you can do, and all you can do is enough.”
A. L. Williams

I got this fabulous quote from my brother, Zed.  It’s perfect for someone like me, who is a perfectionist and an overachiever, especially when it comes to wanting to fix the world and all of the people in it. Fortunately, I’m not one of those who goes around telling everyone that it’s my way or the highway, though sometimes it’s easy to think that way. I’m the kind that tries to keep everyone happy, as though it’s my job to make sure that every person in the room never gets depressed, gets their feelings hurt, or feels anger.

I learned to do that job well when I was a just a little kid. I felt I had to do everything perfectly and exactly as I was told to do it.  If I didn’t do things the prescribed way the first time, I usually had to do them over and over until I got the results my parents were looking for.

I remember spending a long evening when I was about eight years old, learning about fractions. Dad made me stand on a chair at the kitchen sink, filling measuring cups until I learned that four quarts equaled a gallon, four cups equaled a quart, and two cups made a pint, and so on.  I remember how annoyed he was that I didn’t get it quickly enough for him.  I recall that it was snowing outside and all I could think about was getting outside in the morning to build a snowman. Cups, quarts and gallons were not of interest to me.

During one of my “How to Clean a House,” lessons, Mom, wore a white glove to show me that I hadn’t dusted in every little nook and cranny.  Because it felt like I failed to do things exactly right, I began to compensate by trying to do more than I needed to. I felt that I could never do enough, which led to the belief that I, myself, was not enough.  It’s taken me more years than I’d like to admit to figure out that doing more and more and more to satisfy everybody else’s expectations doesn’t make me happy.

It’s been a lesson well learned. I’ve been on a long and delicious journey this past week, learning more about myself and that letting certain things go is well worth the effort it takes to put them to rest.  I’ll be back in a week, but in the meantime, take a whiff of the lovely roses I’ve sent your way. (-:

These roses are especially for my granddaughter, Casey, who at twenty-four has breast cancer and is an inspiration as she travels down an uncertain road with courage. 

Filed Under: Addiction, Childhood, family, Healthy Living, Matters of the Spirit, Mental Health, Navigating Through Life, Perfectionism, The Garden 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: , , , , , , , ,

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: , , ,

Batty’s Pride And Joy

August 18, 2012 By

My Noah and Zoe in early August, 2012

Who’s Batty?  I am.  That’s what my granddaughter, Zoe named me when she was just beginning to talk and it’s stuck.  Doesn’t sound anything like Grandma or Grammy or any other name little kids call their grandmothers.  But that’s fine by me.  The evening she was born, when I first held her, she looked at me with wide open eyes and a wrinkly forehead. I think she recognized me from some other lifetime as a cray old lady who did magic tricks.

I admit I like the name and feel that Zoe is one of a very few who knows me for who I really am.  In truth, I am a bit batty.  I come from a long line of other batty people who had tough lives.  I’m proud to pass my own battiness on, as long as the recipient understands that it’s something that can be fun as well as painful.  It’s the sad, painful part we want to let go of, going rather for the silly, live-your-life-wide-open kind of life.  I’ve struggled with the painful part all of my life and I’m finally in the crazy, happy place I belong.  My hysterical laughter no longer embarrasses me. I can ask stupid questions, pretend I’m very smart, and say what I mean. The trick is to do it without doing anyone harm.

I’m recently back from a joyful summer break visiting my daughter, Lisa, her partner, Deena and Zoe and Noah of course. They live in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina, a good six and half hour haul one way. For me that’s a long time to sit in a car. Fortunately for me, Bill does most of the driving and we stop three or four times along the way to stretch, have a meal and attend to other needs.  But it’s so worth the drive just to be with them and out of Central Virginia’s hot, hazy and humid summer days.

Arriving is always one of the best parts of each visit.  Glowing smiles abound when I open the car door and step out to be smothered in huge hugs and sweet kisses. I take in how much Zoe and Noah have grown and notice a few gray hairs have appeared on Lisa’s head.  I’m sure they notice the changes I’ve undergone too … my newest wrinkles and the unmistakable stiffness I feel as I climb out of the car.

If we saw each other more often, we’d hardly notice the subtle changes that take place on a daily basis, but since we only see each other three or four times a year, those changes are always the first things we see.  I clearly remember watching my parents age every time we had a chance to visit after I’d moved away from home. I always imagined them the way I saw them the last time we were together. I would find myself feeling a bit sad as I watched them move through their own journeys toward the end of life.  But now, my eyes are trained on the maturing of two young people who have their whole lives ahead of them.

Zoe, Batty and Noah in early August.

During our first couple of hours together we feel the excitement of wanting to sit down and talk about all the things we miss telling each other during our weekly phone calls.   For me, there is no substitute for an in-person, face-to-face, laugh and cry together visit.  Skype and my handy Iphone are merely  pretense.  The best visits come with seeing each other for real, laughing so hard we almost wet your pants and holding each other through times of sadness.

Noah, granddad Bill, and Zoe.

Noah turned nine in July, and Zoe will be twelve at the end of September. I adored them as babies but now I love them even more as they grow in body, mind, and spirit, providing deeper conversations than we’ve had  before.  Zoe has always been a writer.  Since she was first able to hold a pencil and spell, she’s written stories, always accompanied with her brilliant drawings. Now her interests are expanding to photography and film.  I watched her first efforts at animation and I have a feeling a camera is in the works for her birthday.

Noah is all about space and Star Wars.  For his birthday I sent him a model of our planetary system that he  put together with the help of his mom and Deena.  It now hangs proudly over his bed.  He also has a large regiment of tiny plastic soldiers that he lines up to do battle with each other. He is very fond of his Grandaddy, Bill, wanting to spend as much “boy time” with him as possible.  The feeling is mutual. They spent an evening at a minor league baseball game at which the local team won (Yay), and frequently got lost on their way to other places like Chucky Cheese.  Needless to say, good ole Granddad was a bit worn by the time we left to come home.

Zoe wanted “girly time,” and on our last day there, I treated her to her first Pedicure ever.  She giggled the whole time, being very ticklish, and chose silver and a bright red for her toe nails.  I, of course, not to be outdone, had to have two colors as well and chose a teal blue and a deep scarlet.  I liked Zoe’s combo much better.  Lisa was the boring one with only one color, red.  After our pedicures we met the “boys” for lunch at Plant, one of Asheville’s finest vegan restaurants.   Deena, Lisa’s loving significant other, couldn’t join us much of time as she works long days.  We missed her but had the weekend and some evenings to catch up with her.

Zoe, Lisa, and Noah

Over the week we shopped for school supplies, took nice long walks in the cool of morning and swam together in the pool at the nearby fitness center.  Zoe would dive under water and attack my feet like a crab, while Noah sat on Bill’s shoulders and loved being thrown over and over again into the water.  We shared wonderful meals together and each afternoon we took some time to go our separate ways for napping, reading or just being alone.  Zoe and Noah spent two nights with us in the small condo we rent when we visit and Lisa and Deena had some time without the kids.  I remember how valuable those times were when Lisa and Mark were small.  It was a spectacular visit.

Like any grandmother who is madly in love with her kids, I admit the real reason I wrote this post is that I intend it as a love letter to them and to show off my family in photos.  So forget what we did and just oooh and aaah over this batty woman’s pride and joy! (-:

Filed Under: Childhood, family, Friendships, Gratefulness, Life, love, Time, Travels, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

My Summer Garden

May 26, 2012 By

The back yard.

The artist is the confidant of nature,  flowers carry on dialogues with him through the graceful bending of their stems and the harmoniously tinted nuances of their blossoms.  Every flower has a cordial word which nature directs towards him.  – Auguste Rodin

It’s been a perfect spring for reworking the garden.  Throughout May rain has been abundant with regular showers during the late afternoons and the dark of night. Just a few nights ago we had well over an inch of rain which came down fast, heavy and loud, leaving the new additions to my gardens dancing.

Most of the work is done for the summer except for continuous weeding and deadheading to keep the blossoms coming. There is space available for more plants but I wait to find the one that calls my name as I walk past it at the nursery. Or I might marvel at one in someone else’s garden and then do an all out search to find it.

Keeping the garden moist enough so that the plants thrive is another chore throughout the warm season.  In the past I’ve been guilty of over watering many plants causing them to die because they don’t like wet feet.  So this year I’m being extra wary, using a meter that tests the moisture level of the soil when it’s looking too dry.

When we bought this house almost two years ago the bank out front was covered with low growing junipers. They were green year round and were easy to maintain, but not colorful or interesting.  Last summer they started turning brown but then came back to life in the fall.  This spring there was a massive die-out and we removed them all, replacing them with a much more interesting selection of plants with the help of my gardening mentor, Maria. She and her sons have worked with me for years, doing the big, heavy jobs.

The front of the house with newly planted bank.

This year she redesigned the front bank and did all the planting. Many of the them came from Maria’s own nursery as well as from Lowe’s, where at this time of year their plant benches are overflowing with low-priced shrubs and flowers. The secret is to check in daily to see what new goodies have been delivered.

I took on the gardens in the back of the house. There is another bank above the driveway but it’s not the back breaker the one out front is.  Most of it’s in deep shade, which I love. I also added a few annuals to a sunny location for cut flowers.  I love Zinnias and Cosmos. They add boldness and grace to any flower arrangement.

Every morning as I look out into the gardens my heart swells with joy. Simply passing through from the house to the garage, any darkness of mood disappears as I take in the colors and textures around me.  Yellow day lilies, hardy white gardenias and purple coneflowers offset by a riot of soft and sharp greens make the day bright even if the sky is steel-gray.

The shade garden out back.

There is so much more to come as the season progresses and I find myself on the other side of summer.  Late bloomers and fall colors hold until the last leaf drops and the flowers go to seed.  I’ll fill an album with photos as the summer passes, so that next January when it’s cold and dark, my inspiration will continue.  Without my garden I become disconnected, unable to write or paint. It fills me with life, love, and keeps me centered. It feeds my soul.

 I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.  – Claude Monet

A reblooming day lily.

PS  I found the quotes above on one my very favorite blogs. Check out Terri Windling’s artwork and words here.

Filed Under: Life, love, Matters of the Spirit, The Garden, The Seasons Tagged With: , , , ,
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