I am bereft. I cannot possibly write about it now. Maybe later. Just know he was a very small dog with a huge personality and lived his life living with joy until the very end. He taught me many lessons while he was with me.
Brody RIP
March 15, 2013
Suffering And Wisdom
March 5, 2013 By
“ When it’s time to suffer, you should suffer; when it’s time to cry, you should cry. Cry completely. Cry until there are no more tears and then recognize in your exhaustion that you’re alive. The sun still rises and sets. The seasons come and go. Absolutely nothing remains the same and that includes suffering. When the suffering ends wisdom begins to raise the right questions.”
Seido Ray Ronci, The Examined Life
I subscribe to Tricycle Magazine’s, Daily Dharma. Every morning a new quote is sent my way and most of the time I’m very taken with what it has to say. I often take a quote into the day with me as a mantra, a way of dealing with what unfolds as the sun moves across the sky and evening descends.
There have been many times in my life when I could have used this quote to help me through a particularly painful bump in the road when I wouldn’t allow myself to cry … or scream, or even laugh.
I can remember times when I cried myself to sleep. When there was absolutely nothing left inside of me that could produce another tear. When I woke it felt like I had been lifted out of the fog. Things looked brighter. I may still have been feeling sad or hurt, but there was always a new energy available that helped me get up on my feet and move forward.
There have also been times when I wouldn’t allow myself cry, or scream. I walked through my days as if in a trance, retelling myself the story of what had brought me to this point, unable to put it aside in its own place. There was no relief from the darkness. Unlit days melted into the night without the benefit of wisdom. Sometimes it took hours or days to find the glow in the distance of time. Sometimes it took months or even years before I allowed the sun to burn it’s way into my life.
I love this quote because you can take it a few steps further and say that when it’s time to laugh, you should laugh yourself silly … pee your pants … snort and guffaw … and spread the joy. It’s about the here and now. This very moment. The only one we have
Whether you need to cry, laugh, scream, dance or roar like a lion, do it with all of your heart and soul. Use it. You will be the better for it and wisdom will be yours.
When was the last time you cried your eyes dry or had a fit of laughter that left you feeling on top of the world?
Dogs In My Toolbox
February 9, 2013 By
Top Dog Sam. He’s been with us since 2003.
There is a toolbox in my heart. It’s filled with all sorts of things that help me navigate through my days and keep my life on the straight and narrow. When I begin to feel a bit off, anxious, or fearful, I can reach in and pull out something that will bring relief, slow me down, and get me back on track.
My tools include things like taking time to sit and meditate, choosing to take a hike, or a quick walk around the block. My weekly Yoga and Pilates sessions also figure in as tools as well as my cross-trainer that I can jump on anytime and work off a bit of anger or frustration. My weekly phone chats with dear friend, Sharon, who lives too far away to have tea with in person, brings me laughter and helpful listening when they’re most needed.
There are lots of books in my box as well, like those written by Buddhist Nun, Pema Chodron, that can straighten out my thinking when I’m in a quandary and need a bit of inspiration. Poets like Mary Oliver, Mark Nepo, and David Whyte are also on the shelf. A goodly number of memoirs are stacked inside. I love them because they help me to see how others navigate troubled waters. Some of my favorites includethose by Cheryl Strayed and Mary Karr.
But some of the best tools I’ve ever had were dogs and cats. A year and a half ago Molly left us to join my other deceased companions somewhere over the rainbow. She was the love of Sam’s and my life. She left a hole in our hearts that nothing could fill.
Very Special Molly
Over time, Sam and Bill seemed to become one with each other but I was feeling a bit left out. To try to even things out we adopted Terry, last summer. He didn’t last very long because he beat up on Sam, as well as on much of the furniture. Thankfully he is now with another family with two little boys to keep him busy and no other dogs to be jealous of. But Bill was heartbroken when we had to give him up and didn’t want to try another dog in fear that again, it too might not work out. We both get very attached in very little time. He told me he might be open to trying again after the holidays. I agreed, while that hole in my heart just stayed put.
In the meantime, I followed Animal Connections on Facebook. They are the folks who had rescued Molly from a terrible living situation. Over the last six months I’ve watched one sweet, little dog after another go off to their forever homes. One little guy in particular caught my attention. He and his brother were given up by their family, who for one reason or another could no longer care for them. I knew that I couldn’t take in two dogs and figured I’d never get to meet the one that looked a bit like Molly.
Brody, four years old, and as sweet as can be. Ear-do #1.
I followed Brody and his brother, Morgan, as they were sent off to a foster home, getting in a car accident on the way. Though Brody wasn’t hurt, he was scared and ran off into the woods and couldn’t be found. Crazy me didn’t sleep well that night, worrying about a little dog I’d never met. After he was found the next morning, I was relieved and ecstatic that he was back with his brother.
The holidays came and went and when I asked Bill if he was ready to try another dog out, he said no. Sam seemed to be happy on his own and was more Bill’s companion than mine. They were both happy and out of respect for them, I gave up expecting that I’d fill that empty corner in my heart.
Then just a week ago, I got a message a friend who works with Animal Connections. It seems Brody and his brother had to be separated because suddenly Morgan was beating up on his smaller sibling. She said that Brody might be a great fit for our family and asked if she could bring him over to meet us. I hesitated before showing the email to Bill, but ended up pleading my case and he gave in.
Brody, Ear-do #2.
Brody has been with us now for a week. I adore him and the hole in my heart is overflowing with love and a little fellow who jumps up on the bed in the morning when the alarm goes off, and kisses me awake. Sam at nine years and possibly feeling a bit arthritic is not as playful as he once was, but seems to enjoy having Brody for company. And of course, Bill is as much in love with this little guy as I am.
How about you? What’s in your toolbox?
Being Reborn
January 12, 2013 By
Anybody who knows my visual art understands that I LOVE color. It turns me on, provides me with an abundance of joy, and makes me want to dance. I’m happiest when the sun is shining, and the sky is a deep, arctic blue and there are flowers blooming in the garden of every possible color. The bolder the colors the better. When I’m feeling down, it can be very pleasing to pull out one of those big boxes of Crayola’s and smear color all over an empty sheet of paper.
Yesterday was a dark, cold, rainy day. Bill and I decided to make our way to Richmond, to see the Chihuly Installations at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. A neighbor who had gone to see the show before Christmas told me about it. She recommended that I go over and take a peak before it disappears in February.
The hour-long drive over to the museum was miserable with steady rain and poor visibility. I wondered why we were out on the road instead of staying home in front of a warm fire, drinking hot tea and reading a good book. But once inside the museum and just beyond the entrance to the exhibition, I knew we had to be there.
I’m not one who is usually blown away by art glass, no pun intended. It can be very beautiful, but it’s never really caught my attention … as in feeling that I was so excited, I was about to explode. My heart rate revved up and I felt like I was about to fly into one of those gorgeous sunsets we sometimes experience over the sea, in warmer climes, when there is lots of pollution in the air.
I was speechless. I was breathless. The installations are life-size, enveloping the darkened, but exquisitely lit galleries in bold reds, greens, yellows, blues, and every possible shade in between. It took me a few minutes to calm down and begin to carefully listen to Dale Chihuly, talk about his work on the audio guide. And as much as I love his glass work, I love his “drawings” more. They speak to me in soft whispers and loud shouts. I’ve never been “saved,” as in a church by Jesus, but I was certainly reborn yesterday as I stood before this magnificent, explosive work.
To be honest, I haven’t taken myself on any art dates recently. The last time we were in New York, I didn’t step foot in a museum or gallery. I’ve been too obsessed with my memoir and writing. But seeing this exhibit has inspired me so much, in so many ways, that I’ve decided I’ve got to get out more and see what’s going on in the visual arts world these days.
Seeing other people’s artwork is powerful medicine for me. I feel lighter. I feel happy. I feel giddy. I feel like writing. I want to dance. I want to live life to it’s fullest.
Do not miss seeing Dale Chihuly’s work should you find yourself within viewing distance of one of his exhibitions.
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?
