Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 33

Are You Ready For Your Next Chapter?

My two-year-old grandson approaches a big slide he’s never been down before. Tentatively, he starts to climb each rung of the ladder leading to the very top of the slide.

As his distance increases from the safety of the playground floor, he periodically checks behind himself to make sure his daddy is still there. Reaching the last rung, he plants his little bottom on the highest part of the slide. – glances back one more time at his dad – and then – lets go.

He reaches the bottom in record time – aided by the slide’s innate slipperiness.

He gets up –runs towards his dad and announces proudly, “I DID IT! I DID IT!”

WE are now all calling him the “I DID IT KID.”

Why? Not because he is so spectacularly special (which he is, of course) but because he tackles practicing new skills daily. Along with that struggle, he needs support and encouragement. But alas, the last action is all his – the idea that he can overcome his fear of something untried – something new and unfamiliar – and take a risk.

It’s hard sometimes to muster up the courage to just “try stuff.”  To venture into uncertain terrain. Nora Hiatt is doing just that.

She’s a woman inspired from Toni Morrison’s wisdom: If there’s a book you want to read, and it hasn’t been written, then you must write it.

Well, there was an event Nora had been wanting to attend, but could never find. So guess what? She created it.

On Thursday, October 17, in Indianapolis, she is birthing a new concept entitled NEXT CHAPTER – a full day of events aimed at women over 60 who are eager to re-imagine this stage of life.

The day-long workshop will feature breakout sessions, a gourmet lunch and me as the keynote speaker. Also? Some tantalizing surprises – none of which Nora will reveal!

What she does say is this: “Now, as we start retiring, this generation of women is changing how we view ‘the R word’ once again. Some of us are continuing to work for pay. Others (including me) have structured a regular blend of volunteer gigs that allow me to keep my brain active, be around people of diverse ages and still travel whenever I want. And we are looking at how we will spend the next decade or so.

“Next Chapter,” says Nora, “will meet women where they are and provide an opportunity to hear from other folks who are not only grappling with similar issues, but coming up with creative approaches and solutions. This day is about US. It’s time to get moving.”

Break-out session topics will range from maintaining brain health and keeping fit, to writing a memoir, to mastering the intricacies of Facebook, to downsizing.

My take: Let’s all bust out of our self-imposed silos. Stop clinging to outmoded behaviors and mindsets. Reach out. Broaden our horizons. It’s a bit like college living, 50 or 60 years later — minus the frat parties, exams and pre-game tailgating.

Think of this special day as a time of exploration and adventure. –  a time to write your own “next chapter.”

http://events.r20.constantcontact.com...

The Importance of Playdates as Time “Melts” Away

Next year is my 55th high school reunion. My husband’s too. Special to us? You bet. It’s where we re-met 44 years ago at our 10th reunion and married the following year. Our class has an active website and notifications pop into my e mail account announcing classmates’ birthdays, weddings and career updates. The biggest surprise: death notices.  No longer shocking. And no longer caused by freak accidents.

Unfortunately, the pain of mortality is becoming ever-present.

Why start this newsletter in such a doomy/gloomy manner? Simple. If the class comedian, the star athlete, and the shy kid in the third row of algebra class have met their Maker, my days are numbered too. Not clinging to tired patterns. I’m embracing a new narrative. And rather than deploring the inevitable, it’s dramatic re-set time. I’m reveling in the luxury of added time. Of doing something purely for pleasure. Of viewing being active and productive as not being mandatory.

Playdates with valued friends and family – outings or just chilling – are occupying a much higher priority. Polishing my inherited antique furniture and organizing my life‘s possessions Marie Kondo style won’t be crossed off my to-do list anytime soon.

Being someone who tends to do most things to excess, I went from zero playdates to two in a row this past week.

First Outing: lunch of course with one of my besties, Lynne, and then off to The Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida  which houses the largest collection of Dali’s work.

I’m not sure about the existential reasoning behind Dali’s very famous painting The Persistence of Memory featuring a “melting clock,” but I know he was inspired by observing Camembert Cheese melting.

Personal significance? Time is fleeting – like feathers released from a pillowcase – flying everywhere – never to be retrieved.

And just as special is the Dali Wish Tree – a Ficus tree in the museum garden, teaming with ribbons that carries the wishes of museum visitors. Part of the Hindu and Scottish cultural tradition, the branches hold fond hopes.

Second Outing: A walk on the beautiful sandy white Gulf Coast beaches with another one of my besties – Francine.

Followed by lunch – of course – and bargain shopping at the local beach boutiques.

What did it cost me?

A slight dip in my checking account

A delay in answering my e-mails

A refrigerator devoid of coffee creamer, eggs and Georgia peaches

Wilted plants on my front porch

What did I gain?

Appreciation for being mobile enough to walk the beaches

Gratitude for valued friends to enjoy

Recognition that I’m in control of my own remote

Thankfulness for some disposable income

And most of all, a heightened recognition that because life is unpredictable and finite, we must invite JOY, ADVENTURE AND CHALLENGES into our lives.

But you knew that, too, right?

Preserving Your Bloom (and Sanity) While Caregiving

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to be interviewed by Carol-Ann Hamilton, host of The Conscious Caregiver Show.

An elegant interviewer and formidable wordsmith, she reminded me that the definition of Preserving as in Preserving Your Bloom (PYB) is maintaining something in its original or existing state, protecting, safeguarding or looking after and caring for. Carol-Ann also pointed out the meaning of my first name: Iris.

Iris means rainbow in Greek and Iris was a Greek goddess who served as a messenger representing faith hope, wisdom and courage. I’m very happy that my mom and dad gave me such a fortuitous name and that being a messenger for positivity has certainly been a large part of my life work.

https://www.spreaker.com/user/bbm_global_network/conscious-care-giver-show-49

Hope you both enjoy and learn something from our conversation.

And I leave you with the following that someone much wiser than me penned:

We inevitably encounter losses and pain as we age. People we love get sick.

People we love need us to care for them and advocate for them.

And people we love will one day leave us.

I firmly believe that the secret to overall contentment comes from acceptance of life as it is.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Three Friends in Two Weeks

There is no gentle way to say this: My husband and I lost three special friends within a two-week period. Their ages: 83, 72 and 65.

Two had health issues, but their deaths were nevertheless unexpected. Both died in front of their wives – wives who had stood by their sides for close to five decades. Caregiving was an everyday, 24/7 reality for these couples.

My other friend died suddenly after re-starting her life as a single woman. Her last public picture was snapped at a non-profit gala: she is dressed head-to-toe in hippie garb, with a dazzling smile and glowing expression.

Sometimes well-intentioned people say the wrong thing.

It’s easy to stick even your mini-size 5 foot in your mouth in a difficult situation like death.

Research shows people who are grieving are more likely to think “She is a moron,” instead of  “She was uncomfortable with this situation,” after someone lobs an insensitive, invasive or awkward comment.

So, here are some really stupid things NOT to say to loved ones left behind:

It’s better this way.

Time heals all wounds.

I know what you’re feeling. I understand what you’re going through.

It’s part of God’s plan. She/he is in a better place.

What happened?

At least you’re not going through (and then cite your personal story…)

Stay strong.

Everything will be okay.

It was his/her time.

Don’t be sad when there’s so much to be grateful for.

G-d needed him/her more than you do.

People have been through worse.

We all have problems.

G-d never gives you more than you can handle.

Everyone dies eventually.

You can re-marry.














Be aware of the bereaved feelings and concerns, particularly after the loss of a spouse:  














I feel like I lost my best friend.

I feel guilty that I didn’t do enough for him/her.

I am afraid.

I am devastated.

I am worrying about lots of things.

Suddenly I feel very old.

I am thinking about my own death more frequently.

I’m relieved the suffering’s over, but guilty for feeling that way.














I’m trying to process the permanence of him/her not being here with me.  And what he/she will be missing, not what I will be missing.














What helps the mourners?














Texting is great and stating you don’t expect a response is even better.

Listening.

Expressing that you have no idea what they are going through or how it feels.














Understanding there are so many death-related tasks all at one to be done from the mundane to long lasting – choosing a casket, arranging for a burial plot, canceling future doctor appointments, writing an obit, selecting burial attire, securing clergy to officiate, post-funeral arrangements.














Offering to do specific tasks such as coming to walk their dog, picking up a prescription or fetching a relative at the airport. This lifts the burden off the survivors to come up with a task for you to do.














Sending something special to them – my hand-knitted pouches with comforting, personalized messages tucked inside have worked well.














Showing up. With food. Or organizing meal deliveries during those first wrenching weeks.














What should the person offering comfort keep in mind:














Realize that losing a life partner involves a dismantling of the life they have built together.














Realize that grief is accompanied by feelings of anger, despair, disbelief, shock, numbness, apathy, loss of appetite, and lack of energy.














Acceptance of the death of a loved one varies with each individual.

Doing something is always better than doing nothing.


















Losing friends and family is a part of living and living longer. And dealing with loss in a healthy way is an important component of sound mental health at every age.

Here’s to managing our losses and maximizing our joys!

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

I went for a walk in my old neighborhood

I went for a walk in my old neighborhood recently – the one where I raised my youngest three sons. –  the neighborhood we moved away from thirteen years ago.

I walk by the park where my sons went sledding and G-d knows what else they did – bingeing on beer, sneaking a smoke, hanging out with a female friend.

As soon as I snap a picture of the park entrance, I text it to the three of them.

Surprisingly, one of my sons immediately responds: “Oh wow. Looks like they finally removed the tree at the bottom of the hill…must have been because my idiot friend hit it when sledding.”

Emboldened that I had garnered interest, I proceed to snap pictures of their elementary school, middle school and high school as I stroll along.

Climbing the last hill heading back to my sister-in-law’s, I stop for one more photo – a picture of a bunch of teen-age boys shooting hoops in the shadow of the neighborhood water tower.

I text that one too.

Immediately a flurry of responses bombards my phone:

The old neighborhood looks great. Timeless.

Love that town.

Super nice hoops. I think the back boards and hoops we had were Soviet style – an overstock from the Gulag. Wow. Those kids are so lucky – the hoops in the park look brand new. Ours sucked.

One more text flew in right after that: Mom, sounds like you had a good walk.

I stopped short – puzzling how to answer. Was it a good walk? To them – perhaps – from their vantage point, it was. An update of the neighborhood they grew up in. A nostalgic look back at their childhood streets and avenues.

For me, it was a heart-wrenching reminder of days long gone – days I wish I had savored more.

But there were:

Math problems to check

Lunches to pack

Car pools to drive

Bills to pay

Whites and darks to sort

I know I went to soccer games

I know I watched my kids playing wiffle ball in the backyard

But the memories are wispy, illusive threads.

I want those days – those every day, mundane days – to be seared in my memory – indelible.

Not blurred by time.

I’ve got pictures, videos, diplomas, worn soccer and basketball jerseys, baby shoes and baby books.

But it’s not enough.

The time of active parenting is all-consuming, exhausting

And seemingly endless.

Then it’s over.

No more: beer cans in the bushes, angrily slammed doors, scraped knees, bruised hearts, lost homework, hugs and handmade birthday cards.

I wish I had paid more attention.

The family who bought our house has lived there almost as long as we had.

The streets look the same, but the people I knew are gone, as are the children I raised.

The late July evening is filled with lingering sunlight. I pass other walkers.

A man with his dog.

A father with his teenage daughter.

I recognize no one and no one recognizes me as I walk the very familiar streets.

The air smells the same – a mix of fuel, freshly mowed grass, wildflowers, graham crackers and sun-warmed laundry.

My sons are now dealing with raising their own kids.

Reminding them to wash their hands before dinner, to place napkins in their laps and chew with their mouths closed, please.

Wiping noses

Buying school supplies

Registering for fall soccer

Was it a good walk?

I guess it depends on who’s asking.

And who’s answering.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Wednesday morning wisdom you don’t want to miss!

Caregiving is an opportunity to give back to those people in our inner circle who have given so much love, attention and effort into making us the people we are today. But caregiving can also suck the oxygen out of our bodies, mental well-being and souls.

Ever been a caregiver? Or know you will be someday soon? Or watched a friend or family member struggle through?

How do we find balance?  Manage other’s expectations while keeping in mind our own needs? Prevent guilt and regret from washing over us? And keep positive, energized and engaged?

These are tough questions and a tough topic. And I’ll be tackling them Wednesday morning, August 7, as a guest on the radio show The Conscious Caregiver with host Carol-Ann Hamilton. We’ll be chatting about attitudes and mindsets, practical strategies and approaches and what I’ve learned about myself as a result of my care taking experiences.

Tune in at 8:55 a.m. EST until 10:00 a.m. by clicking on this link: https://www.facebook.com/theuncopeable/

It’s not just about PRESERVING YOUR BLOOM. In this case it’s also about PRESERVING YOUR SANITY!

Hugs,

Iris Ruth Pastor

A Convoluted Path to Releasing a Powerful Memory

No one seems very impressed with the picture I painted in my daily mixed media art class during my week stay at Chautauqua – except me.

At first the blank canvas terrified me – reminding me of my initial gaze at the dashboard options of my newly leased car after driving a stripped-down Volvo station wagon for a decade. At least in that case, the myriad of options was finite. To sit down with a blank canvas and to be told to draw something is paralyzing. I needn’t have worried.

“Close your eyes, breathe deeply and imagine your favorite space,” my art instructor begins. “Picture the door and window placement. Think about the room’s colors, the walls, the furniture arrangement. Picture the season of the year, the time of day, the textures of the fabric, the way the light spreads its glow. And think about something happy that happened there.”

I visibly relax. I let the images of my grandmother’s second story front porch wash over me. It’s summer. Early morning. Two place settings sit atop her wrought iron glass top table – one for me and one for her. A pitcher of orange juice, an oversized bottle of Karo Syrup and a ceramic vase of her homegrown bright pink roses completes the arrangement.

I picture myself restlessly squirming in my seat, skinny legs dangling, eagerly waiting for my grandmother to push the screen door open with her free hand. The screen door creaks as my grandmother emerges – carefully balancing a heaping platter of matzo meal pancakes stacked on a gleaming white china tray. She sets the tray down and rushes back into her tiny kitchen to fetch her scalding hot coffee – proceeding to heavily douse it with little white pellets of saccharine.

Our beloved Saturday morning ritual begins: Breakfast with my grandmother on her front porch.

My reverie is interrupted.

“Use your canvas to paint with the predominant colors you have just imagined,” I hear our funkily dressed art instructor chirp.

My grandmother’s boldly striped canvas awning covering the entire space of the porch pops into mind. And I began to squeeze out little puddles of green, red and yellow acrylic paint onto my blank sheet of paper – swirling my paint brush boldly.

“Use another piece of paper to paint things that illustrate the interior,” I hear my art teacher murmur. “Then cut and paste what you have drawn on that second piece of paper onto the first piece.”

Three hours fly by as we chat, paint, cut and paste.

The following day, stiff pieces of canvas are laid out at our places in the studio. “Use these to frame the piece you made yesterday,” our art teacher explains. She shows us how to measure for the opening, to use the inside part of the canvas to experiment with frame design ideas – and then cut them out and place beside picture. “Choose one design and then begin to paint the canvas frame,” she instructs clearly.

My grandmother died of pancreatic cancer sixty-four years ago. Her sewing box is tucked away on a shelf in my laundry room. Her Art Deco jewelry has a prominent spot in my armoire and a picture of her hangs close to my king size bed. But this painting captured – like nothing else clearly has – the sheer joy she brought into my life when I was a seven year-old little girl – adoring her unconditionally.

I don’t know where I will hang my picture.

I do know my picture has become one of my most prized possessions.

And I am deeply grateful to my lovely young art instructor (far left) for guiding me through the creative process – releasing that wispy, blurred recollection into something vivid, bold and enduring.

Starting at the top far left is an abstract representation of me, then a chair, and then a window. Below that, starting at the far left, is a ladder – representing a gateway to my future years without her – and a table with a vase of flowers. Clearly I’m not quite museum-ready but it’s a modest start!

Try your hand at something artistic. You, too, might be surprised what the process unleashes.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Very Pleasant Surprises and One Not-So-Pleasant Surprise

So my friend Tawny and I decide to go to a place in western New York called Chautauqua. To me, it’s adult summer camp, but with air conditioning and private baths.

First dilemma: How many pairs of shoes to bring?

Six pairs of shoes for seven days is ridiculous. I pare down to four.

Second dilemma: What to bring to eat and drink?

Easily solved. Heavy on wine and sherry. The rest is ancillary.

Tawny and I talk non-stop from Cincinnati to Cleveland, failing to notice the gas gauge. When we do, it registers nine miles of gas left in the tank. Taking the very next exit sporting a gas symbol, we veer from the highway and easily find the gas station. Problem? Closed. Abandoned.

Getting back on the expressway, we frantically look for the next exit sporting a gas symbol, again veer off the highway and spot another filling station. Problem? Closed. Abandoned.

Our laughter dies. Our chatter ceases. We frantically google nearby gas stations and cluelessly cruise the back roads searching for fuel. With virtually an empty tank, we approach a fully functioning gas station like roving bands of thirsty nomads descending upon a water hole. We tank up.

Nothing can stop us now.

As we enter the gates of Chautauqua, we are dazzled by the array of musical eye candy.

“There is no place like it. No resort. No spa. Not anywhere else in the country or anywhere in the world – it is at once a summer encampment and a small town, a college campus, an arts colony, a music festival, a religious retreat and the village square – and there’s no place – no place with anything like its history,” so says David McCullough, historian and author.

Founded in 1874 as a training camp for Sunday School teachers, Chautauqua is located on the shores of Lake Chautauqua in southwestern New York state. It is a festival for the mind, body and spirit and is open every summer from June to mid-August attracting people from all over the world.

Trip Advisor shows 305 Excellent Reviews and 11 Terrible.

The Terrible: 

The place where fun went to die

     Don’t go there unless you’re like 100 years old

     Sentenced to a seniors‘ Club Med without decent dining options

The Pleasant Side:  

My morning yoga class is a mix of challenging, but not exhausting movements. Translation: I can still easily walk the following morning without visiting an Urgent Care and/or massive doses of Tylenol.

     A paper girl stands on street corners hawking the DAILY paper.

     And the mix of retail, food, galleries, post office and library bring forth memories of The Gilmore Girls’ town square – or as my friend Tawny observed: her old neighborhood in Cincinnati circa the 1950’s.

My daily three-hour art class each afternoon has three students – one of who is comedian George Carlin’s only child. She is a fifty-six year-old free spirited, brilliant woman who only can be described as authentic, courageous and constantly re-inventing herself. And she introduced me to the heretofore unbeknownst concept of “Soul Collage.” (More on that in another Friday chat.)

The first night at Chautauqua we are treated to two hours of non-stop dialogue hosted by Ira Glass –of This American Life, an hour-long weekly radio program broadcasted on numerous public radio stations across the world. He regaled us with anecdotes of his agonizing slow climb to competency, admitting that he expertly edited radio narratives from the get-go, but his writing was awkward and boring – far from the professionally polished pieces his idol, Nina Totenberg, was churning out. His message: Failure comes before something good.

Glass graciously took questions at the end of his presentation. A sixteen year-old male shyly walked to the microphone and lamented the fact that his parents were pressuring him about what colleges he would soon be applying to and what his major was going to be. “I’m completely clueless,” he admitted to Glass. “Do you have some advice for me?”

Ira Glass paused. And paused some more. “Yes,” he answered emphatically, “Just try stuff. It takes a lot of trying lots of stuff before you figure out what works for you and then it may only be a short fling. Just try stuff.”

One afternoon mid-week, I briskly walk to my afternoon art class located on the edge of the Chautauqua campus. Realizing that the multitude of water I am drinking is taking a toll on my bladder, I ask my art instructor to direct me to the nearest restroom.

 

I eagerly push the door open, barely registering that directly to the left of the one enclosed stall, there are two urinals. After I finish in the stall, I head for the sink – in clear view of both urinals. As I begin putting soap on my hands, the door flies open and in walks this random guy. Except he’s not really random – I just happen to know him from Yoga Class – he’s actually the only one in the yoga class I’ve even talked to.

Automatically, I assume he will wait a few seconds until I’m done washing my hands before heading to the urinal.

Wrong. He walks directly to the urinal. I fly out the door – fleeing to the Art Annex. I share my utterly bizarre experience with my fellow students. “Welcome to the ARTY end of  Chautauqua,” they answer. “Don’t you know the definition of ‘WHATEVER’? It’s inclusive.”

I guess I never looked at it that way. I’m not opposed to inclusiveness in any form. But I am opposed to crudeness.

To calm my frazzled nerves, I have an extra big glass of Sherry before dinner. As I serenely gaze at Lake Chautauqua shimmering in the late afternoon sun, I wonder about coming back next year.

     I think about the bag of intriguing used books I bought at the Chautauqua Library for a mere $5.

     I think about the reverend I heard preach on Sunday morning stressing the importance of first concentrating on repairing and improving our own little corner of the world.

     I think about the woman at the visual arts center who is actively encouraging me to develop a Chautauqua course for next summer incorporating my knitting and my Preserving Your Bloom theme. And my young Art instructor who spent a full hour with me brainstorming possible course segments.

I decide I will come back – with one minor adjustment: any restroom I use will never be one with the word “Whatever” below it unless it is a one-person restroom with a lock.

 

Just try stuff,

Iris Ruth Pastor

My Secret is a Secret No Longer

What happens when you have a demon that prevents you from enjoying life to the fullest? I had one and I managed to eradicate it from my life. Double click on this link to see how you too can “Preserve Your Bloom.”

Iris Ruth Pastor 

Today you are HEARING from me, NOT reading me

Ever pondered – as yet another birthday looms on your horizon – how to live more fully and joyfully? Last week, I had a radio interview with Shawn Perry from Senior Zone. And we tackled that topic. You can listen to the full radio clip HERE.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor