Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 36
January 24, 2019
Some cool things to do in the new year!
Broken New Year resolutions making you feel despondent? Here are some cool things to do in the New Year that are not guilt-inducing and will leave you more creative, energized, self-aware, and healthier.
My hubby and I drove to the Berkshires last summer. One sun-dappled afternoon, we wandered through small gift shops laden with unique items. I came across a purse. The price of the purse was close to what I would pay for an original piece of artwork. I passed on the purchase, but the image of that purse nagged at me. I put my ingenuity to work. Bong! I could buy the purse to carry on special occasions and also display it in my home as an original creative piece. Lesson: If you want something, find multiple purposes for it to reduce guilt and buyer’s remorse.
Start a Gratitude Jar or a Mood Jar. Take your pick.
Gratitude Jar:
It may seem trite, but years ago, I vowed to find three specific things to be grateful for each day and to recall them right before bed. Over time, I noticed my shifting toward a more positive mindset. Instead of looking for things to be mad about (and I was expert at finding plenty) or over-focusing on the negative, I became pre-occupied with watching for specific things on that day to be thankful for.
Mood Jar:
When the mood strikes you, describe your state-of- being in one word. Write it down. Date it. Drop it in the jar. At the end of the year, dump out the contents. Read through your entries. Assess the degree of positive vs negative moments and brainstorm about how to increase the former. Lesson: awareness breeds contentment.
Another cool thing? Designate a door for people who enter your home in 2019 to sign their names in permanent marker. I’m not sure why I wanted to do this, but my husband wasn’t a fan. First, I proposed we utilize the rectangular column in our front foyer as the perfect repository of signatures. He flatly refused. We compromised and selected the pedestrian door from the garage to the house as autograph central. I like keeping track of who comes and goes. Lesson: I’m not sure why I felt compelled to do this, but I have learned to follow my gut.
Post a list of healthy things to do daily on an inside cabinet door in your kitchen.
Studies have shown in surgical settings, a visible to-do list increases the probability of all going smoothly and that nothing important is forgotten or neglected. Plus, if you are neurotic, like me, checking-off things accomplished jump-starts a surge of adrenalin. Lesson: As we age, our short-term memory goes South. Adjust.
And the coolest thing to do? Keep this quote close. From the novel, The Dinner List, by Rebecca Serle: Happiness is not constantly needing things to be at their full potential.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom
(the best you can),
Iris
October 22, 2018
Iris Ruth Pastor Wins Prestigious Award, Announced at 2018 Florida Writers Association Conference
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
(October 22, 2018: Tampa, FL.) The Florida Writers Association, Inc., (FWA) has announced that Iris Ruth Pastor of Tampa, FL won a prestigious Royal Palm Literary Award (RPLA). Iris’s winning entry, “The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman”, won Second Place for Memoir. The award was announced at FWA’s recent four-day annual conference in Altamonte Springs, Florida.
“This is the most competitive RPLA we’ve ever had,” said Chris Coward, RPLA chairperson. “The RPLA administrative team, judges, and entrants did an amazing job.”
In all, the competition covered 26 adult genres and 5 youth genres.
“The competition was stiff and I am thrilled to have my book selected as a winner,” exclaimed Pastor.
For more information, visit www.irisruthpastor.com or contact Iris Ruth Pastor at irisruthpastor@gmail.com.
July 6, 2018
I’m Taking a Break
Well I had such a darn good time on my “Running Away from Home” trip that I decided to “run away” again. With my husband this time.
The first stop is a tough one. We’ll be spending July in Cincinnati, Ohio – our hometown – for the first time without my mom there – and closing up her apartment. It’s an end of an era.
In August, we are treating ourselves to two weeks in the Berkshires. We’ll celebrate both our birthdays and our anniversary there.
In September, we head to New York City and for the first time, we will have a whole month to enjoy our New York based sons and their families.
I like to think of myself as part of the “Elastic Generation” – a term I read about recently in the New York Times. It’s defined as living according to how I feel, rather than how I ought. It’s not rebelling but it is re-inventing, welcoming change, stretching the boundaries and challenging the status quo. And accepting what is.
I’ll be back weekly in October – reporting faithfully on the paths I followed, who I met on the way and what I learned in the process.
And if you want to keep track of my wanderings, check me out on Instagram. And please share your journey with me too through your comments.
Until then, keep Preserving Your Bloom – just as I will be doing too.
Iris
June 29, 2018
Looking Fabulous at Any Age
He told me that for $13,000 not only could he make my neck look like I was ten to fifteen years younger, but my whole face – from the skin under my eyes downward. (He said my eyes and forehead were in good shape).
The problem was I didn’t want to look ten to fifteen 10 years younger. I just wanted a firmer chin line. I just wanted to look good for my age.
So I passed on the proposal.
This is what I know:
I’m seventy years old and I still wear bright red nail polish. And I still wear the same number of rings on all my fingers as I did fifty years ago:
I was boho chic in my thirties and I intend to be boho chic in my 70’s – only with slightly lower heels and a little less cleavage showing.
It’s okay to retain our youthful style as we age.
Many say that baby boomers are the entitled generation – challenging boundaries, pushing the envelope, living according to how we feel rather than society’s rigid dictates and they have a point – we are unharnessing our constraints. We are forging new paths and pushing the boundaries. Status quo is not part of our mindset nor our vocabulary.
I’ve noticed that I have become more confident, more assertive, more resilient and more outspoken. I’m not content to sit on the couch and knit – except late at night – because I’m finding out there is so much more to learn, to explore and experience. And I look for the unusual and eclectic.
Like a teenager, though, I’m still impacted by my peers. I’m impressed by my friend who craved a red leather chair for her living room and bought it. I’m inspired by a friend who walked the El Camino Trail two summers in a row. I’m energized by a friend who goes to art camp three times a year. I’m in awe of a friend who starts a program in one school to empower inner city, disadvantaged youths and now it has spread to seventeen city schools thanks to his co-creators and the financial support of local businesses.
What my peers wear influences me too. I’m hyped up by my friends whose style is ageless. Who don’t throw out clothes because they are too youthful, but adapt them to conform to their maturing bodies. Their refusal to give in to matronly, dumpy wardrobes buoys me up – encourages me to stick to my singular style of lots of layers, funky jewelry, and boldly patterned scarves.
As someone a lot brighter than I once said about the boomers, “Age no longer dictates the way we live. Physical capacity, financial circumstances and mindset arguably have far greater influence. And there’s no fixed pattern for how any of us grows older.”
So for many of us, we may not be getting second looks or even first ones from strangers on the streets, but we still want to display our unique sense of style and buck the stereotypical image of a woman of a certain age, who only wears muted colors, lots of beige and conforms to society’s portrayal of us as no longer chic, stylish or daring.
Personally, I found I can still present a funky image at age seventy – I just adapt it to fit my body. For instance, I bought an interesting one piece denim article of clothing but wore it over a black one piece body suit that covered up my jiggly knee caps and slimmed down my hips. At age twenty, I’d have gone without the body suit and probably a bra too. Now, with just a slight alteration of articles of clothing, I wear this piece with confidence that I can be fashionable and the clothing I choose can be flattering. And I feel good about myself because I wear clothes that are comfortable and fit my body.
I like what Alex Rotas, the photographer says: “LIFE BEGINS AT ANY AGE YOU DECIDE LIFE BEGINS.”
And It’s okay to strive to look our best.
I whiten my teeth; I get facial sun spots removed.
I do yoga to remain flexible.
I exercise regularly to feel energized.
I take some supplements to replace what is being depleted.
I strive to look, feel, and perform at peak levels for my age.
And I’m appreciating that I’m still healthy enough to build on the confidence I’ve acquired, the self-esteem I’ve earned and the love and support of a husband and five children that I have diligently loved, guided, and looked after.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
June 22, 2018
Calamity on the Road
The first challenge occurred after eating a leisurely lunch of shrimp and grits – kind of an interesting combination. And after I impulsively buy a floral-patterned pair of linen pants.
I then drove down a winding boulevard lined with Grand Oaks and Southern style stately mansions. Shortly after, I left Beaufort heading for Fayetteville, North Carolina. My plan was to spend the night there and then the next morning head to my sister’s house in Newport News – about six hours away.
The temperature was 92 degrees outside when my air conditioner stopped working. Highly irritated and sweating profusely, I made a split-second decision to bypass Fayetteville and head straight to Newport News. I assumed two things:
that when the sun went down, the car’s interior would naturally cool off
that there was a BMW dealership in Newport News that could hopefully fix my car’s air conditioning.
Assumption #1 proved faulty. By 8:30 pm, though darkness was closing in, the car remained hot as hell. I was sweaty. I was sleepy – and I had at least three more hours to travel to reach Newport News, Virginia.
When it started raining heavily, accompanied by sharp flashes of lightening and loud, banging thunder, I began lamenting the whole “running away from home” endeavor and my cavalier, free-spirited attitude about driving the East Coast solo.
As I exited off I-95 to finish the last leg of my trip to Newport News, fog was swirling all around me. I stopped for gas. And tried to figure out why my GPS on my I Phone was no longer talking to me and why it was routing me in a different direction than my car’s navigation system.
I spent the next ninety minutes driving down dark, deserted, curvy two-lane backroads, while my GPS mileage count continued to hover around “forty-two miles” to Newport News.
I did two things.
I repeatedly assured myself that I was okay. “There is no need to panic,” I sternly admonished myself. “I have a tankful of gas and a fully charged car phone. And eventually I have to hit some sign of civilization.”
I looked for the humor. And irony. I’m the one who stubbornly declared to every family member who dared question my decision to drive up the coast alone that I was fully capable of handling unexpected events. And further, I’m always the one in the car who wants to exit the highway and drive the scenic route. Well, I got my wish.
Around midnight, I capitulated and finally called my youngest son to help me out. He instructed me to take a screenshot of what was appearing on my GPS and send it to him. He helped me figure out where I was, where I should be and how I should get there
About an hour later, I pulled into my sister’s driveway.
Assumption #2 proved accurate. The BMW dealership was able to fix my air conditioning. And my sister and her husband and I went out to dinner to celebrate my arrival.
Two days later, I left for Baltimore to visit a high school crony. Once again – me – the person who never gets lost – who intuitively has a great sense of direction – got lost again after exiting the main highway into Baltimore. This time, I didn’t even attempt to find my own way. I immediately called my friend, who has lived in Baltimore for over forty years. “I have no idea where you are,” she exclaimed, and promptly handed me over to her husband.
“Lock your doors immediately,” he sternly instructed me. “You are in just about the most crime-ridden section of the city.” He then literally remained on the phone with me until I pulled into their driveway thirty minutes later. We went out for dinner and drank to my safe, but perilous, arrival.
Early the next morning, I left for New Jersey, where my son, daughter-in-law and three of my grandchildren live. Fully confident of arriving at their home without travail, once again I got lost upon leaving the main highway. After much re-routing -courtesy of my GPS – which for some unknown reason had begun talking to me again – I found myself in familiar territory and made it to my son’s home before dark.
I never took one wrong turn when I went from my son’s home to Newark two days later to pick my husband up from the Newark Airport. It was then that it finally dawned on me what the lesson was to be learned from “My Running Away From Home” trip.
Remember the play Fiddler on the Roof? Remember the lyrics from the songFar from the Home I Love? There is one line in that song that encompasses the lesson I learned: “There with my love, I’m home.”
I’m convinced that we always do find our way home. And Home has always been and always will be right beside my husband.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
June 15, 2018
My Solo Road Trip
I set my car’s mileage tracker back to zero and pull out of my driveway as planned at 8am sharp eight days ago, Thursday, June 7. Waves of pure joy and images of unbounded freedom wash over me as I head for the highway: Savannah bound.
I left nothing to chance. Called my friend, Joyce, who knows everything. Told me where to stop for lunch – a sleepy little river town: St. Mary’s, Georgia. And where to stay in Savannah: the Ballastone Inn in the historic downtown area.
All goes seamlessly. I pass roadside stands and markets so popular in the south
I cruise down sleepy streets lined with dilapidated old houses. I imagine restoring one to its former glory.
Pulling up to the Ballastone Inn, its curbside appeal instantly enchants me.
A charming private room and bath await me – with floral patterned wallpaper and a queen size bed with a canopy.
As per Joyce’s precise instructions, I had called ahead and asked the concierge to make me a reservation at a very well-known eatery in Savannah – The Painted Lady. I was a little disappointed with the time slot – I had preferred 7 or 7:30pm, but they were booked until 8.
Getting dressed, I heard massive amounts of sirens in close proximity. I paid little attention. Emerging details of Anthony Bourdain’s suicide being broadcast on TV kept me captivated while I brushed my lashes with mascara and highlighted my cheekbones with powdered rouge. Still the sirens blasted away.
Plugging in walking directions in my Google maps on my iPhone, I merrily proceed on the route. My leisurely strolling is harshly interrupted when I witness a crowd of people clustered behind that bright yellow tape that signifies an emergency.
I approach a younger woman standing with a group of four. “What’s going on?” I ask hesitantly.
“Oh, you know the Painted Lady Restaurant? Well an unaccompanied driver apparently had a heart attack, around 7:25 PM,” she relates. “He lost control of his car, hitting something that set off a gas leak right in front of the restaurant. They’ve cordoned off the area in case of a gas explosion.”
Potential disaster averted, I find a small cafe, order a Moscow Mule and ponder the randomness of life.
On Friday, I shop the galleries and owner-operated boutiques. Walk the plethora of historic squares highlighting Savannah’s war heroes and founders. Indulge in a little retail therapy and sample local specialties like waffles coupled with crispy fried chicken. And walk the side streets lined with row houses.
Around 5:30, I set off for Shabbat services at one of the oldest Jewish congregations in the United States – Congregation Mickve Israel.
And as the familiar service concludes, many congregant send me off with “Shabbat, y’all” ringing in my ears.
I sail off in high spirits for Jazz’d Tapas Bar to spend the remaining evening hours listening to a three-piece jazz band. Alone.
It didn’t turn out quite like I anticipated. The trio played folk music and country, not jazz. And I ended up not alone, but with unexpected companionship.
As the hostess seats me at a table top with four stools, she cheerily announces that the trio plays in an hour. Immediately, I’m ill at ease. How can I stretch out my food and drink order to last over an hour so I can hear the music? And then, how can I sit in a crowded place taking up a table with three empty stools?
I begin with a Moscow Mule to quiet my apprehension.
8:15: my drink arrives.
8:30: I order a Caesar salad.
8:45: I order Crawfish Mac & Cheese.
9 pm: Finished eating, I look around. I’m the lone unaccompanied woman in the entire bar, which is filled to capacity.
9:03: Against my better judgment, I order a second Moscow Mule as the trio warms up.
9:15: A tall woman, about my age, clad in layers of tie-dyed materials, is cruising the bar looking for a seat. Totally impulsively, I beckon her over. And offer her a seat at my table – thinking that at least her presence will alleviate my uncomfortable feeling of taking up a whole table.
Beaming with pleasure, she nods affirmatively and goes off to get her companion. Seconds later, the two sit down. Music blaring, it’s impossible to hear much but their names: Robyn and Misty Iris.
A chill runs though me. How serendipitous. She has “Iris” as a last name; I have “Iris” as a first.
“Actually,” she confides above the din of the music, “Iris is my middle name. My last name was too hard to pronounce and spell, so I dropped it.”
At the next break in the music, I learn they are two very close friends from Colorado who haven’t seen each other for eighteen months. Robyn has been living with her adult daughter in Atlanta, who is on dialysis and waiting for a kidney donor. Robyn and Misty traveled to Savannah for a little “girl time.”
We immediately hit it off. Misty and I both remark that the music is so loud it reminds us of bar and bat mitzvah celebrations where conversation is virtually impossible due to the noise level. We share stories. We exchange business cards. We ask the waiter to snap our picture.
“We rented a boat, docked at a nearby marina, through Airbnb. Come back and see it,” they implore. “We can have wine on the top deck.”
I am speechless. My rational mind says, “Are you crazy, Iris? Though we seemingly have lots in common, these two are literally strangers. Are they planning on robbing me? Plotting to dump me overboard after weighting me down with rocks? On the other hand, Misty is a nice Jewish woman born and raised on Long Island. How wacky can she be?”
I envision my mom jumping out of her coffin, screaming, “No, no, no, Iris. Haven’t I taught you to be cautious?”
In spite of vividly imagined admonitions from the grave, I hear my addled brain – awash with two Moscow Mules – send a signal to my mouth and I answer affirmatively.
Off we go.
In retrospect, my intuition – though impaired – must still have been working. After unlocking the hatch, Robyn and Misty eagerly show me their quarters and then usher me back up to the boat’s deck for a little wine. The warm night and the gentle lapping of the water induces more storytelling. Forty-five minutes later, I call Lyft and they walk me back to the parking lot abutting the marina. We hug hard and promise to keep in touch.
At the inn, I fall asleep immediately – part of me enthralled with meeting two such delightful women – and part of me astonished at my recklessness.
Next week: Calamity on the Road
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
June 8, 2018
I’m Running Away From Home
I know it’s only been a couple of weeks since my last newsletter, but I miss the connection. I caved. I gave-in to impulsivity. I happily went back to letting my fingers fly all over the keyboard – churning out thoughts and gleanings.
So what have I been up to since we last communicated? Quite a bit:
Re-orienting myself to a new status: A Parentless Adult
Building up the courage to have a stomach scan, endoscopy and colonoscopy. And doing it. Why did it take courage? After bingeing and purging for forty-five years, apprehension about an internist looking closely at my insides was high. Results: all normal. I’m damn lucky.
Binge Watching both seasons of Sensitive Skin on Netflix.
Facing a fear: TRAVELING ALONE.
I am inspired by my childhood friend, Tawny, who walked – all by herself – half of the El Camino de Santiago (a.k.a. the Way of St. James) last summer. It is a journey that begins in France and winds through four of Spain’s fifteen regions, covering 500 miles.
She is walking the last half of the trail as I write this. ALONE. On foot – totaling up to fourteen miles a day.
I’m clearly not that intrepid. Nor that physically fit. Nor that confident in my self-sustainability. “Mouse steps, not kangaroo leaps” is my motto.
Here’s my trip’s title: “My Running Away From Home Soirée”
Here’s my plan: A nine-day road trip from my home in Tampa to my son’s home in New Jersey. With frequent stops along the way: St. Marys. Savannah. Charleston. Fayetteville. Newport News. Baltimore. And covering eight states: Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware and New Jersey.
Every stop focuses on a different aspect of traveling solo. And every city promises varying challenges and experiences. And by pre-booking my hotel rooms at every stop, I am assured that I won’t be speeding down unfamiliar roadways in darkness. Only in daylight (thank you DST). And I won’t be at the wheel for more than four to five hours at one time.
Why am I “running away from home” now?
Because I can
Because I’ve never done it before
Because I have a reliable car, a cell phone, Google Maps, Sirius Radio and a car charger
Because I find the prospect of solitude enticing
And because I realized I needed a break from my daily routine more than I needed a break from writing
What am I expecting?
To hone my self-reliance skills
To view the world through my eyes only
To experiment with dining solo
To awaken my senses of smell, taste, texture, sounds and sights devoid of distraction
To create a silent space to re-bloom
And to have a helluva good time!
Who knows? This year: a car trip along the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. Maybe next year: hiking the El Camino de Santiago.
Intrepid traveler? Frequent traveler? Experienced traveler? If you are out there, I welcome your suggestions on setting-off solo.
In the meantime, Keep Preserving Your Bloom
– Iris
May 4, 2018
I’m Tired
Something invaded her body like a raging out of control fire, whizzing through dry timber. She was seventy-three.
Within hours, her son posted on Facebook: “It is with a heavy heart and profound sadness that I mention the passing of my mother, Marlyn Weinstein. She lived a full and happy life, and will be sorely missed by those whose lives she warmly touched. Always kind and thoughtful, she was a wonderful mother who gave her time generously to the many friends and family she loved so much. This is how I will remember her.”
Marlyn and I shared the same birthday, both fellow Leo’s. But we roared in different ways.
I think my sons would most likely post about me: “My mom was a creative person whose passion was birthing new ideas, but whose life was laced with self-imposed pressure to incessantly learn and passionately pursue new avenues of endeavors. So relentlessly busy, she trained her friends not to call her to touch base, but to text her instead. And be brief. She had little tolerance for minutiae. And she missed a lot of birthday parties.”
Not such a great legacy.
And truthfully, I’ve been thinking of cutting back for awhile. Marlyn’s death was just confirmation that I’ve been driving myself too hard.
So I’m taking a break from writing my weekly newsletter simply because I’m emotionally exhausted. It’s been a rough couple of months – which followed a rough couple of years.
I’m tired.
It’s not that the well has run dry on subjects to write on. Or professionals in the Eating Disorder field to reach out to. Or podcasts to record or Facebook chats to set up. Or mastermind groups to run. My idea notebooks – by sheer force of habit – have as many budding ideas scribbled in them as ever. Lists of more how-to books to order and read. More techniques to experiment with in the ever-emerging and always challenging social media field.
Even though I write about “Preserving Your Bloom,” I’m not doing such a good job of preserving my own. My blooms are withering on their stalks for lack of nutrients.
My creative juices will re-emerge after dormancy. Of this I am sure. But first I need to rest and replenish. I’ve got to re-embrace with loving care – not impatience – my husband’s attempts to draw me close. I need to connect with my kids and grandchildren less sporadically. I need to give myself time for yoga classes, knitting projects, an intense conversation with a friend, a lengthy walk to nowhere or simply settling down on my shade-dappled porch with an enticing new novel. I need guilt-free time for frivolity and pleasure. And spending time with those I love so passionately.
Webinars on “How to beef up the quality of your Instagram photos” or “The five biggest mistakes newly-self-published authors make” will be around forever. My time is finite and as President Clinton once noted, “There are more days behind me, than ahead of me.”
I want to go watch my favorite baseball team play a game – without mentally going through my to-do list, while simultaneously lamenting the loss of “productive” time. I don’t want my kids to repeat the same thing they told me three times before, because I was too distracted to listen to them the first time.
Marlyn won’t get the chance for do-overs and re-assessments – in anything she aspired to. And for that I grieve.
And I also grieve for me – who foolishly is squandering her chance for do-overs because she is too busy trying – as a fellow creator confided to me just yesterday – “to be unique, admired and sought after.”
I think I’d rather be wildly relaxed and well rested, for a change.
My garden is in need of weeding, watering, pruning, cutting back and cultivating. Fertilizing. Aerating. Filling with nutrients. The withered blooms need to be carted away and, in its place, glorious blooms need to begin to push through the well-tilled soul – seeking the sun. That’s when I know I’m living true to my brand of “Preserving Your Bloom.”
And that’s when I’ll be back.
My guess: about four weeks.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
April 27, 2018
Happier Times Are Here
It All Starts With Good Health Intentions
It’s been an angst filled time in my life – compounded losses have abounded.
I take stock:
I’ve gained weight (I’m not one of those people who lose weight when stressed – I turn to wine and sugar to relieve my anxiety).
My jeans are tight.
My Sciatica is back in full force. (no pun intended)
Leg and toe cramps visit me nightly, as soon as I curl up in bed.
And heartburn now accompanies my heartache over losing my mom and cousin.
What to do?
Well, I’m heading back to Weight Watchers so that I can once more shed enough pounds to COMFORTABLY zip up my skinny jeans – without passing out from an inability to take a deep breath.
I’m going to be actually weighing my food instead of shoveling it into my mouth by the handfuls. And then rationalizing the portion size.
I’m scheduling physical therapy for the radiating pain in my legs.
And I’ve recruited my younger cousin, Jill, to be my head cheerleader in coaxing me back to good overall health. She solved all her health problems through diligence, research, trial and error and self-discipline. All the things I lack. That’s why I’ve recruited her. Maybe I can get some of it simply through association with her.
Stay tuned for more specifics in a follow-up newsletter.
Meanwhile, I’m basking in the thought of how healthy I will be and how wonderfully constructive all my intentions are. I guess you could label this “My Good Health Intentions Stage.”
Oops, Can’t Forget “Home Renovation Stage”
And then I read in the April 20th edition of the Wall Street Journal an articleabout finding nirvana at HOME. I start itching to expand my list of personal intentions beyond just getting healthier. And home improvement is always tops on my list for buoying up my spirits
Remodeling your space to reduce stress? Right up my alley. Redesigning to increase mindfulness? Love it. Meditation spaces to expand my wellness regimen? Can’t wait. (The fact that at present I have NO wellness regimen does not deter me in the slightest.)
I’ve got a good start: One hundred fifty-year-old Grand Oaks in my yard to gaze at. I admit I’m lacking twenty acres of undisturbed land to romp in and an ocean view to elicit rapture – all of which I’m led to believe will increase serenity. But, hey, I also have an undisturbed six-foot tall concrete wall to gaze at. Okay, so its purpose is to screen out the noise of the relentlessly busy two-lane highway hugging the perimeter of my house. But it IS gaze-able. Ugly, but slightly gaze-worthy. Maybe I could employ my artist friend, Michelle, to paint a beachy-like mural across its expanse.
And I do have interior high ceilings and big windows – both of which are supposed to induce a state of restfulness – according to the nirvana article.
But I am sorely lacking a one-acre medicinal garden of edible shrubs – also recommended for inducing calm. However, I do have a new basil plant in a clay pot on my porch off the family room. It gets regularly replaced every three weeks – right after I kill the former one. And I do see greenery from many of my windows – which is supposed to “impact your mind and well-being.” Except, it’s the wrong windows with the greenery: my commode, my guest bathroom, my laundry room and my butler’s pantry. Unfortunately, my kitchen, family room and bedroom windows face a washed-out looking, decaying wood fence.
And I have to admit that my house also lacks a Japanese style tearoom, a meditation altar and yoga studio. But, no kidding, I do have a covered outdoor gazebo. It serves no purpose whatsoever, except as a receptacle of discarded, chipped, dirty clay pots. My friend, a self-declared expert Fung Shui practitioner, boldly and emphatically informed me – in a none too pleasant tone of voice – “that is where all your personal chi energy is escaping to, thus making you listless and apathetic.”
Geez.
I’m undeterred. I’m determined that my health and wellness-seeking endeavors will be infused with a new burst of creativity and inventiveness once I recycle all those old clay pots. And my presently unused and neglected outdoor space will now be dedicated solely to meditating and the practice of Yoga. No more donut dunking and romance novel reading in my old and comfy wicker chair on the gazebo. Nope. The gazebo will be stripped bare. It will be purposefully, aesthetically spartan. No decadence will dare seep into its space.
Execution is a Whole Other Matter.
But first I have to build a walled trellis and coax it into a lush mass of greenery. I’m not sure what that entails. Then I have to give up Coffee Mate, caffeine, sugar, dairy, and all carbs. I have to train myself to meditate for more than fifteen seconds. Oh, yes, and build a reflecting pool. Screen in the gazebo and install some dimmer switches, somehow soften the floor, add a few potted palm trees, and multiple cushions. And most importantly, introduce a state of quietude. That means scheduling my de-stressing (not distressing) time when automobile traffic is light and my backyard neighbors aren’t entertaining, swimming in their pool, or letting out their dog – who howls and barks incessantly. Yep: my own slice of paradise – available weekday mornings between 2am and 4am.
I can’t wait to move from intention to active execution.
Oh yes, and one more thing: I’m starting tomorrow.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris
April 20, 2018
How Have You Healed After a Loss?
My mother has been gone eight weeks. Her kitchen cabinets are still fairly well stocked, but I noticed when I went to refill the salt shaker she was out of salt. And the three packages of Pepperidge Farm shortbread cookies that were always tucked away in the small pantry were eaten days ago.
By and large, though, the apartment where my mom last lived looks the same. The walls still have her paintings and the couches are where they always have been – and as uncomfortable as ever. And she still has six rolls of toilet paper in the bathroom closet and plenty of sharpened pencils and Scotch tape in her black desk drawer in the spare bedroom. But there’s no Cincinnati Reds pennant adorning the front door to her apartment – a pennant that has hung there throughout every baseball season that she has lived there.
I know she is gone, but I still feel her presence when I come back to her apartment. And there is something comforting about being where my mom spent her last years – even though I know many of her days were tinged by the frustration of not hearing and the loneliness of not having her children nearby.
Before her lease expires in July, my sister and I will begin the task of sorting through her belongings and thoughtfully try to give to each family member what they deem most fitting and fair. The shelves will be emptied. The clothes donated. Her curio cabinet will be shipped to Washington. Her garbage can full of photos will arrive in Virginia. And her wrought iron kitchen table and chairs will go to Tampa. Her physical apartment will no longer exist. It is a wrenching thought.
Before I can even fully process that scenario, I receive distressing news from Michigan. My beloved first cousin, age fifty-six, is in full blown health crisis mode. Diagnosed with Stage Four Lung Cancer, he is scheduled to begin aggressive chemotherapy. Before the first treatment, he suffers three successive strokes that paralyze him from the neck down, blind him and most probably rob him of his ability to think. Chemotherapy is put on permanent hold.
On the spur of the moment, my husband and I fly to Detroit to see him one last time. We sit with his three sisters and his mom and dad, intermittently telling stories of past happier times or lapsing into sad silence. We wring our hands. We scrutinize every rogue movement of his body. We analyze his various breathing patterns. And we wait for the inevitable.
I simply can’t comprehend the scenario I am witnessing. We laughingly referred to my cousin as “Mr. Organic.” He ate in such a healthy way. He understood the intricacies of vitamin supplements. He practiced integrative medicine. Worked out regularly. Neither smoked nor drank nor ate junk food to excess, if at all.
Just a few days ago, my cousin was released from the hospital and taken by ambulance to his oldest sister’s home. In a hospital bed, sedated by morphine, surrounded by his sisters, Wednesday morning he drew his last breath. He will be buried today.
I already miss his creativity, his verve for life, his enthusiastic embracing of all things involved in community theatre. The joy he brought to our family was immeasurable when he produced a documentary on my dad and his World War ll experiences as a ball turret gunner on a B -17 Flying Fortress.
There has been so much sadness in such a short period of time. Too many sleepless nights. Too many strange hospital corridors. Too many dire diagnoses. Too many IV poles and morphine drips. First for my mother. Now for my first cousin.
I wonder how you “Preserve Your Bloom” in the wake of so much loss.
Four things comfort me:
Judith Viorst in her book Necessary Losses says: “Loss is an inevitable part of life.” That helps me accept the realities of my loved ones’ mortality and blocks that “poor me, why me” mindset.
My mother would have advised me: “All that you are feeling has been felt before.” Those closest to us at some point leave us. Our feelings of loss, anger, and sadness are all part of the universal experience of living amongst people who matter to us.
And from my dad —who always put a humorous spin on things – he would have reminded me: “Don’t let life make an old lady out of you, kiddo.” I take that as a directive to roll with the punches and practice self-care.
And from a very wise friend – who capsulized moments with great clarity – she would direct me: “Don’t short circuit the grieving process. Don’t leap frog over the messiness.”
So, we will go to the funeral. We will go to the cemetery. We will go to the memorial services. And we will carry with us his fully engaged essence – remembering him when the leaves burst into bloom, when the summer heat sizzles the sidewalk, when the trees shed their leaves and when the snow blankets the streets. And we will treasure greatly his ever-lasting contributions to our family’s history. And the memorable moments we shared.
So, here’s to finding the strength to get through the rough times. And here’s to possessing the smarts to recognize that the rest of the time we should take full advantage of whatever resources we have to fully enjoy life’s pleasures.
How have you healed after a loss?
– Iris
