Sharon Charde's Blog

ALL THOSE POSTCARDS….

…phone calls, door knocks, contributions to ActBlue. All that excitement and hope, especially from we women, again thrillingly imagining a woman in the White House at last. Surely it will happen this time, we said to each other as we sat each Tuesday and Thursday at tables in a local inn, addressing thousands of postcards to newly registered voters in swing states.

My favorite was this one: A president is a public servant. Donald Trump is running for election to enrich himself, avoid jail time and seek retribution on his enemies. Vote for Harris/Walz on November 5. They know their duty is to the American people and not themselves. Thanks for voting!

And now all those predictions will come to pass, after the cataclysm of November 5.

We’ll be led by a ship of fools--cruel, cunning, and inhumane fools, who, when and if they figure out how to actually govern and not just break things, will basically take from the poor to support the rich--I read recently that there is much talk of severely limiting Medicaid to help limit the budget destruction the Trump tax cuts will cause.

 I’m sure more cuts to programs that help our poorest citizens survive will come, thanks to the evil that Musk and Ramaswamy will be able to accomplish (see Project 2025). How the poor and even middle class will suffer--the people who voted for him. I suppose many may come to regret their votes, but I take no pleasure in their probable distress.

Right after the election, a friend wrote me this: Trump accomplished what even Hitler could not do. Take complete control of a government in a free and fair election. Our future depends on what adults he assembles around him. Many worries there.

Yes, and now as we are finding out who those adults are, fear is ascendant in many of our hearts.

These words of mine came up as a memory on Facebook shortly after the election, as I was making plans to fly to DC for the amazing and inspiring Women’s March after the 2017 inauguration:

My despair continues. I am searching for a way to channel it, to find actions that will make me feel I am doing something positive to combat the revulsion and profound anxiety that I feel in the face of this daily assault of unthinkable reality. Seeing that man in the high leather chair that belongs to a statesman, in a room he has no right to inhabit, makes me cry once again, drown in grief and horror and rage. But before action, I know I need time and space to mourn what feels now, lost forever. I've been a liberal democrat since high school in the late 50's--a passion for social justice, the women's movement, the call to reach out to the world from my place of white privilege, is in the marrow of my bones. Perhaps I will never get over it--grief is a trickster, it comes in waves and grabs us when we don't expect it; a condition I know all too well. It commands respect, demands we listen to it. I am trying. But meanwhile, I refuse to accept what is becoming the normalization of Trump's new position in the world. "Well, maybe it's not so bad." "We must all come together." I say no, not now, not yet, perhaps never. What is happening is not "normal," it is perverted, twisted, a blow to the spirit, the soul. Another America has risen from behind a fog to capture the flag of our country. It demands we see it, hear it. What it has to say will shape the future in ways we cannot imagine.

 How those words resonate now. What’s different though, is that we’ve had eight years of this dreadful man being in our face every day, normalized as a candidate, as a person- we’re too used to him and his horror show.

 As the Germans got used to Hitler. As they perhaps learned to keep their eyes closed as he created more and more atrocities against “the other.”

 It just sounds too familiar.

 I am thankful to my wonderful yoga teacher Sarah Getz, who taught me how to breathe, or I’d still be hyperventilating.

 Breathing deeply helps. Meditation helps. Long walks with my black lab help. Connecting with other like-minded friends helps. Distractions are necessary as are writing and reading- (I recommend “Lovely One” by Ketanji Brown Jackson, an inspiring memoir by our newest Supreme Court justice). Staying away from the news would help if I did it, but I read the NYT and all the other liberal press, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes voraciously. I just read that Gaetz withdrew, but it’s possible, yes probable, to get someone worse I suppose. And there are so many other purely dreadful, frightening candidates for posts in Trump’s wrecking-ball government-to-be.

 I had hoped to be writing this blog post about two wonderful, nourishing reunions I attended just before the election. The first was what I’d decided would be my “swan song” after thirty-four years of leading women’s writing retreats both in my home in Lakeville, and in Block Island and other beautiful places. Still struggling with my vestibular neuronitis and its dizzy attacks and energy-crushing debilitation, I was buoyed as always by the brilliant writing and sustaining energy of the women who came, some of whom had been with me for many of those years. Their gift of a photo album full of history and gratitude brought me to tears. Though I will dearly miss all the participants who came to my weekend, all-day groups, and ten-session series over the years, I knew deeply that it was time to move on from that work and attend more to my own life and writing.

 I unpacked my books and notebooks, loose comfortable clothing, leftover food, candles, and that precious photo album, only to pull out a bigger suitcase to hold the more dressed-up outfits I’d wear in Washington DC, where my sixtieth college reunion was to happen. I flew down the next day, and how good it was to be with my college classmates of so long ago. Over forty of us came, and in addition to dinners and breakfasts with friends as well as other planned festivities and “The Conversation” mostly about aging and all it means, I especially enjoyed the Friday forum, “Democracy on the Ballot,” featuring many excellent speakers, among them Jennifer Rubin of the Washington Post, and our own Nancy Pelosi ’62, two years ahead of us. We left the forum and the whole reunion feeling optimistic about the outcome of the election. Nancy sounded so sure we would win, saying “Hakeem Jeffries will be the Speaker of the House.”

 Well, we know how that went. At least, small comfort, it’s close in the House. Maybe a few of those spineless Republicans will grow one and stand up for sanity.

 Maybe.

 I imagine many of you are as tired of reading all the doom articles about the election and its devastating consequences as I am.

 So, I’ll end. Enough. But let me offer some words I received the other day, by an exceptional teacher of the Buddhist dharma (teaching of the Buddha), Jack Kornfield:

When times are uncertain, difficult, fearful, full of change,
they become the perfect place to deepen the practice of awakening.

After viewing the elections…. whatever your point of view,
Take time to quiet the mind and tend to the heart.
Then go out and look at the sky.

Remember vastness, there are seasons to all things,
gain and loss, praise and blame, expansion, and contraction.
Learn from the trees.
Practice equanimity and steadiness.

Remember the timeless Dharma amidst it all.
Think of the best of human goodness.
Let yourself become a beacon of integrity, with your thoughts, words, and deeds.
Integrity in speech and action, virtue and non-harming bring blessings.

Remember the Noble truths, no matter the politics or the season:
Greed, hatred, and ignorance cause suffering. Let them go.
Love, generosity and wisdom bring the end of suffering. Foster them.

Remember the Buddha’s counsel,
“Hatred never ends by hatred but by love alone is healed.
This is the ancient and eternal law.”

The human heart has freedom in itself to choose love, dignity, and respect.
In every circumstance, embody respect and cultivate compassion for all.

Let yourself become a beacon of Dharma.
Amidst the changes, shine with courage and trust.
Love people and

This is your world. Plant seeds of goodness
and water them everywhere.

Then blessings will grow for yourself and for all. 

Balance. Remembering impermanence, hard as it is. Not going down rabbit holes of despair,  but trying to see all this in a bigger context, as Jack suggests. 

I need words like his, to take them in.

With love, and hope for peace in our hearts, and someday, in the world,

Sharon

SAFARI

You haven’t heard from me in a while. 

There’s a reason. 

The karmic gods decided I needed a really colossal lesson in letting go. 

I got it. Oh, did I ever. My long dreamt-of Kenyan safari, to celebrate our sixtieth wedding anniversary, was about to begin on September 3, when we would fly to Switzerland to spend time with our son and his wife, then go on to Nairobi a few days later. We were packed (mostly) and ready to go. But this horrid disease I’d had for nearly two months seemed to be getting worse rather than better; our son cautioned me--“Mom, do you really want to spend this expensive safari in hotel rooms feeling lousy?” 

He had a point. And I had a really bad day shortly before we were to leave. So, we made the tough and oh-so-disappointing decision, getting notes from our doctor so we would not lose our money. And we could postpone it to a time when I was okay. 

So, you may wonder, what is this disease? 

It’s called “vestibular neuronitis.” And as the time-worn cliché states, “I wouldn’t

wish this on my worst enemy.” 

It started with a bad case of vertigo in mid-July. My primary care doctor gave me a script for a drug called Meclizine, which is similar to Dramamine. It works somewhat for the dizziness but makes me tired. At another visit, her nurse practitioner suggested I get PT, and wanted me to go for a cardiac consultation. A cardiac consultation? “There’s nothing wrong with my heart,” I told her. Which was just what the cardiologist told me when I finally went a week ago. In fact, she said I had the heart of an athlete. 

The PT taught me the Epley maneuver -hanging your head off a pillow, turning it from side to side quickly, 30 seconds a side, then quickly sitting up. That’s a cure for BPPV (benign paroxysmal positional vertigo). It worked, then it didn’t. In a few weeks I was back to attacks of dizziness-no longer vertigo-often accompanied by severe malaise-exhaustion, nausea, headache, and just feeling lousy all over.  

That’s the state I was in when we decided to cancel/postpone the safari. And, despite my initial ambivalence, it was the right choice, as I continued to have these episodes. I checked where we’d be on the days I had them and realized my son was absolutely correct, that there was a large possibility I would have missed some of the game drives, Maasai Mara, the Great Rift Valley.

Some tears were shed.

My PT recommended that I see an ENT--made sense. Of course, it took a long time to get one. After I finally did, I arrived at the office promptly at 9:30 only to be told they had no record of my appointment. I told the gatekeeper she was mistaken -she told me I was. I furiously told her she had to find time for me this day as I’d been waiting too long and needed some answers. So, I got squeezed in at noon.  

It took him no time to hand me the diagnosis--he looked in my ears and throat, asked me to move my eyes around--asked me my symptoms. Told me there’s really no treatment, and it takes longer to heal in older people. “Read about it,” he said dismissively, getting up to leave.

I’m still no better. Maybe even worse, on the bad days. I’m worried and scared, and that makes the symptoms more intense. At this point, I cannot get in with any doctor, though I’m on a waiting list for an audiogram which the ENT office says I need, and I plan to make an appointment with the wonderful neurologist my husband has seen at UConn. 

Oh, and did I mention that we are still in the throes of construction? (https://www.sharoncharde.com/blog/first-floor-bedroom) It got off to a very bad start with a maddening delay given to us courtesy of the excavator who was working for a “bigwig client” according to the concrete guys who finally showed up. So now we are in the final stages, with maybe a few weeks to go, but meanwhile we are still sleeping in the room that needs to have twin beds soon enough for my husband’s nephew who is visiting mid-October with his family. The builders are truly gifted and wonderful--you should see my new closet--but we are more than ready to make the move. Meanwhile I am ordering heating register covers, bedside lamps, setting up consultations for the shades we need now that we’re on the first floor, and pricing the afore-mentioned twin beds. Imagining how long it will take to make the move downstairs--and get used to this huge change.

Also, I have a Mohs surgery for a squamous cell cancer on my face Wednesday. Thankfully, it’s a small lesion, but will take four hours in addition to an hour and a half trip each way trip to UConn in Farmington. 

My husband went to the funeral of an old friend yesterday (alone, because I never know how I’m going to feel); another friend has a melanoma which has metastasized. People are dying in Gaza every day-now a middle east war looks possible if not probable. More people will be killed. No one is talking about Sudan and the suffering there. The former president, in his immense cruelty, has found new whipping boys in Ohio, and a whole town is suffering due to his malevolence and narcissistic selfishness. I feel anxiety about the upcoming election every single day. 

So, dear friends, it’s not lost on me that this affliction of mine, this loss of balance, may have multiple causes. A friend who does energy healing whooshed her hands over my head a few weeks ago. “Too much stuff crashing around in that head of yours, Sharon,” she said, with a penetrating gaze. 

Don’t I know it. 

I have a workshop to teach on aging at Wisdom House in a few weeks (https://www.wisdomhouse.org/program-calendar/isnt-it-strange), a four-day writing retreat in RI later in October, and my 60th college reunion right after that. I thought I’d be okay, my old energetic self, for these events but now I’m not so sure. I plan to power through, however, whatever it takes. And I will. 

In yesterday’s mail, there was a small package addressed to me. I was puzzled at the return address, didn’t think I had any outstanding orders. Curious, I tore it open and pulled out the tee shirt I’m wearing in this picture, a gift from my daughter-in-law.

If only she knew how perfect a gift it was for right now.  

Thank you, Hedi, for making me laugh, and to remember that there is only one sensible way to live one’s life--one day at a time. 

Even if there’s a lot going on at the moment.

KAMALA

       I am so happy! It’s been a rare emotion these past dark weeks and month and even years--as I read somewhere recently, the Harris-Walz campaign could be called “MALA” (Make America Laugh Again). How apt. Charles Blow had a great column in the NYT today (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/08/07/opinion/kamala-harris-walz-democrats.html?smid=em-share) on the campaign’s “politics of joy.” I and so many of my friends are laughing and smiling again, excited and enthusiastic as we could not be for the Biden campaign.

I love Joe, and so thankful for the great job he’s done as president, but so grateful he’s made room for the next generation, as so many of us had hoped.  

So, I thought I’d repost this old piece, written in joy when Kamala was chosen as Joe’s VP. When I looked it up to see if it had currency for the present moment--the whole piece seems like a “deja-vu” experience, in light of the current amazing emotional turnaround everyone I know has been feeling. And especially because of the Dobbs decision and Project 2025 (every page a horror), which display perfectly how the Republicans want to take us women back to the time in which I grew up.

What relief! 

I believe she picked the ideal running mate and will win the election. We have to work hard, contribute what we can, to make that happen, and as Joe said in his poignant speech, to save democracy.

Here’s the post from four years ago:

   I’ve felt so depleted for the last few weeks that I’ve not been able to summon the energy to write a new blog post. I had wanted to write about John Lewis and his challenge to all of us to build what he called the “Beloved Community,” to get into “good trouble,” and the need for us to stand up for what we really believe. How important it is to tell the truth.  Bush and Clinton, as well as the others who spoke at his funeral were so eloquent and inspiring, and I cried to hear and see Obama, to know so deeply what I’ve been missing. I wanted to hang on to that feeling of inspiration and yes, love. And to share it. But then the funeral was over, and we were back to gratuitous bullying, idiotic tweets, deadlocked Congress, Qanon-believing potential Congress people.

     I finally began a post calling my feeling by its name--- “Depleted,” ---finished yesterday. Here’s how it began:

     When my labs were puppies, I would buy them adorable stuffed toys—monkeys, squirrels, pheasants, even fish. The toys always had squeakers inside, and the first thing the pups would do (when I wasn’t looking) was to try to tear the toy apart, rip out its stuffing to get to the squeaker they, for some reason, seemed to prize. I would carefully put the squeaker and stuffing back into the squirrel or monkey and get out the ancient sewing kit my mother made for me when I got married. Needle threaded, I would sew the rent fabric back up as tight as I could.

     Of course, the pup would do it all over again.

      I wrote that I felt my stuffing was being torn out—by the pandemic and its stripping of options from our lives, by the fascist monster in the White House and

his minions, their cruel travesties against the American people and the stream of lies that pour forth from their mouths daily, by the swelling underbelly of racism in this country that is now becoming mainstream. Then came storm Isaias, which hit my state especially hard and knocked out power and internet for more than a week.

     It all seemed like too much.  I feared for my squeaker—the stuffing rippers were almost there.

     Then came Biden’s announcement of his VP.

     I had been hoping he would choose her. I love Susan Rice, but she had too much exploitable baggage. All the rest of them were great too but each had issues that could easily be abused by the Trump campaign and Trump himself, Abuser-In–Chief.

     Kamala. A woman! A woman of color! Of course, we’d known about the woman part, but to actually have it confirmed, to see them together, to hear her fabulous speech, feel her vitality, her energy, beauty, and skill with words—her woman-ness--it filled me up again.

     I grew up in the forties and fifties, in a traditional family, a very Catholic and conservative one. Women were chattel, owned by men, children were seen and not heard, girls were “less-than.” We knew boys had and would grow up to have more power than we did—all we had to do was look at the world, ruled by men—priests and bishops, doctors and lawyers, bus drivers and store clerks, presidents of colleges, principals of schools full of female teachers, Congress, judges, and of course, the president, vice-president, and entire cabinet. After college, I taught in an inner-city girls’ Catholic high school of 6,000—6 orders of nuns, 11 female lay teachers, and who was the principal? Father Friel. Same in my grammar school, Father Colton, although my high school and college were led by woman—in the case of college, a very strong and brilliant woman, Sister Margaret. But they were the exception.

     In my world, fathers ruled our households while most of our mothers scrubbed and cleaned, vacuumed, did all the childcare, and prepared meals that were seated only when the man of the house arrived home. Women could hope for marriage as a future, borrowing power from a man’s prestige and standing, especially if they were pretty. Nurse, nun, or teacher were the available options for women’s work, if in fact husbands even allowed the wife to work outside the home.

     The texts and poems we read in school were all written by white men. We call them dead white males now, and laugh, but it was my reality then.

      It was a grim world for girls in many ways, but we knew no other, as there were no female role models in positions of power.

     I was aware even then, I did not want a future like my mother’s life, though I married young to a man I loved. We had been equals in every way when we met and dated, but the labels of husband and wife, as well as the birth of two sons in quick succession and his nascent medical career thrust us into similar traditional roles. I did teach until I was let go for being pregnant (in a Catholic school!) but then opted to stay home with my boys, not wanting the influence of a caretaker to replace my own.

     So there I was, in my mother’s life--- sort of, anyway. The difference was of course that my husband was not the autocrat my father had been, though his studies left little time for sharing housework, cooking and child-care.

     I railed against it all, in love with my two boys and my husband, yes, but yearning to see women in positions of power and to feel some of my own. Then came the women’s movement of the seventies---I was a charter subscriber to MS. Magazine, and avidly embraced the tenets it espoused. Finally, shreds of hope.

     But as we all know, change has been much too slow. I’ve devoted my entire professional career to creating women’s community, supporting women’s voices and belief in women’s strength and power, trying to achieve it in my own life as well as in those of other women. And I’m proud of all whose lives I have touched and those who have touched mine.

     So. All this backstory underlies my pure joy in Kamala’s elevation to the VP-elect. To see a woman my son’s age, full of brilliance, vitality, authenticity, and beauty, that radiant smile, partner with a man I respect to seek the two highest offices in the land, gives me such hope. The thought that they might be able to unseat the illegitimate monster who soils the Oval office with his presence is enthralling and energizing.

     A woman in the White House! Yes!

     Those of you who have read I Am Not A Juvenile Delinquent know I speak of hope as dangerous, and it is. Wishing or dreaming or praying does not make a thing happen, expectation is risky and foolish---but I’m going to indulge for a bit, let myself be inspired by this glorious possibility.

     For now, my squeaker is safe, in this nest of fresh new stuffing.

                                                      ************

Thanks to all who wrote with concern about my vertigo. For now, it is gone, thanks to something called the Epley maneuver. And interestingly enough, the day I started the maneuver was the day after Joe left the campaign. Coincidence?

VERTIGO

My body knew before the news told us.

Late Sunday night, I felt dizzy and listed to the left when I got up to use the bathroom. It happened a second time, a little worse. In the morning, before yoga, when I bent down to dry my hair, I felt really dizzy.  

Hopeful the dizziness would subside as time passed, I went to yoga, and the teacher cautioned me about practicing after hearing my story. I thought I could complete the class, but took a place close to the door, just in case. As soon as I sat down and closed my eyes, I knew I couldn’t stay.

I rolled up my mat and left, drove home a little shakily. At that exact same time, the latest Supreme Court decision on presidential immunity was being put out. As well as the extremely powerful dissents from Kagan, Brown-Jackson, and Sotomayor, who said:

…. the damage has been done. The relationship between the President and the people he serves has shifted irrevocably. In every use of official power, the President is now a king above the law. 

“A king above the law” ----what I foolishly never thought they’d decide. That sickening announcement was clearly the last straw for my body and mind. After the Biden debate debacle (I’m still shuddering from it) I just couldn’t take any more.

As Frank Bruni wrote in the New York Times:

Its (the Supreme Court) justices have kicked the can so far down the road that it has tumbled into a different galaxy, a different cosmos, one where there’s no moral gravity, where transgressions vanish and worries disappear with the abracadabra of executive privilege.

Could this really have happened, a Supreme Court toppling centuries of what we thought was settled policy? Could Biden have really stumbled so badly in that debate, mouth agape, words struggling to come out, thoughts jumbled, as he faced the greatest liar of all time? I appreciated Heather Cox Richardson’s observation:

It went on and on, and that was the point. This was not a debate. It was Trump using a technique that actually has a formal name, the Gish gallop, although I suspect he comes by it naturally. It’s a rhetorical technique in which someone throws out a fast string of lies, non-sequiturs, and specious arguments, so many that it is impossible to fact-check or rebut them in the amount of time it took to say them. Trying to figure out how to respond makes the opponent look confused, because they don’t know where to start grappling with the flood that has just hit them.

So true.

It’s not often that I’m speechless, but right now I hardly know what to say. Maybe I feel like Joe Biden did as he faced Trump that debate night, how Justices Sotomayor, Brown-Jackson and Kagan did as their fellow justices decided on immunity for Trump.

Just dumbstruck.

I find I want to stop the world, stop my head spinning, run into the woods away from news, phone, TV, lie on the ground close to the earth and weep.

Instead, I went to the doctor and got some meds to treat the vertigo, meditated, weeded furiously in my glorious garden, went back to yoga as the vertigo subsided.

But I’m feeling ill again. The body keeps the score, as Bessel van der Kolk tells us so eloquently in his book of the same name. The score it’s struggling to keep track of in this case is the constant onslaught of harrowing news.

This dilemma is not going away anytime soon. 

My friend Erica says I, at age 82 with a husband 83 and many friends of similar age, should be the one commenting on what’s happening, as we get all this aging stuff so much more than she and her 30-something contemporaries do.

Indeed.

I know well from personal experience, my own and my husband’s, how hard it is to face our new limitations, our mortality, our memory lapses, and most of all, to know when it’s time to move on from the work we’ve done for so long. When it’s time to be realistic about what the next years could hold. When our choices to hold on tightly to a past self are hobbling our ability to accept our new, more circumscribed personas.

And, worst of all, when this resistance to what is, affects the lives and well-being of others.

That’s how I got my 96-year-old mother to give up her keys. By getting her to think of the others on the road and how she’d feel if something happened that was her fault. The DMV was unbelievably willing to renew her license, and she insisted she was fine to make short trips to the post office and grocery store. She saw it as losing her independence, her worst fear.

Pride, denial. Selfishness. These words have been applied to Biden, and I believe they are accurate. He’s fought the good fight; he’s been a fine political servant all these years and a strong president. He saved us from Trump and because of that, thinks he can do it again.

I believe he’s wrong.

Which is terrifying.

I imagine an election lost to a would-be tyrant, a man who will capitalize on the immunity decision in ways we cannot imagine, who will accelerate the loss of women’s control over their bodies, who will cannibalize our democracy, and load the courts with even more Aileen Cannons and Samuel Alitos.

And much more.

Joe, think about the rest of us. The country you love and have served so well for 50 years. Make a Lyndon Johnson speech, go out as a hero.

It’s time to give up the keys.

Please.

                                                **********

I know it’s been a while since I posted a blog. I’ve started so many on different subjects and as I began to get going, it felt like the words I’d written were already old news, things are happening so fast. The vertigo finally gave me my subject--though by the time you read this everything I wrote about may all be old news too.

Fingers crossed.

                                                ************

(There are so many good articles on this topic--this is an especially good one I just finished: by Ezekiel Emmanuel in The Atlantic)

Read in The Atlantic: https://apple.news/Anjek-fjHQQ6bBy_Q6YabRA)

and here’s another:
https://www.nytimes.com/2024/07/06/opinion/biden-debate-scotus-immunity.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare

The picture--saved it for years. Seemed like the right one for this post--:)

YOU NEVER THINK IT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU

Until it does.

The odds of losing a child before you lose yourself…by age 60, in US, is about one in ten.

I was only 45 on May 9, 1987, when it happened to me.

I am reading Fi: A Memoir of My Son, by Alexandra Fuller, whose son died at the same age my son did (21), 37 years ago. The quote above is from her book; It has been an accidental read--I saw it suggested at the bottom of the last kindle book I’d finished and having loved her other books, ordered this one.

Some say, ‘There are no accidents.’ I mostly don’t believe that, as Geoff’s accidental death was certainly not part of any great plan, but a random event, at least in our family’s belief system.

But possibly my choice of this book to read during the days preceding the anniversary of Geoff’s death on May 9 does fit that saying. I plunged into it immediately, finding much consoling resonance with my own experience, despite our very different personas and mothering styles.

There is a comfort in that resonance, a comfort that those of us who have suffered this loss connect with--though we need no words to grasp our shared experience, words can be a great help, as I have found in my years of writing and publishing poetry, in the response to it as well as the alleviation of my own anguish.

Fuller tells us, “Grief is hungry.” Oh yes.

Though my grief has ceased to devour me as it did in the years after he died, it still catches me off-guard, especially at anniversary times, or when, in an unplanned shuffle through the piles of saved stuff I am determined to unload, I find a homemade birthday card, a childhood picture, a grinning photo of him in Italy, where he died.

It eats up space in my heart and head; I don’t begrudge it-after all, the size of the grief is the size of the love we have had for our child--and that is huge. Fuller and I share both that belief and burden.

In those early, raw months and years, I fear it consumed pieces of my relationship with my surviving son, and most likely, my husband as well. For this I have great regret as well as contrition, but loss’s monstrous appetite subsumed most of my waking life long after he died, the support of loving friends and family, a compelling career as a family therapist and advocate for women notwithstanding.

A friend’s young daughter asked her, “Will Sharon and John ever be happy again?”

I imagine our friend said yes to her daughter’s question. But that it would take some time.

And it has.

In those early years, so many things helped--the unwavering support of our surviving son, Geoff’s friends and our own circling around us, working together to make the old Block Island barn we bought on a whim into a home, the yearly memorials at his grave and parties afterwards. Leaving an unfulfilling school job to open my own family therapy practice, years of personal and marital therapy, Taos, Natalie Goldberg and writing practice. Publication of now eight collections of poetry and a memoir. Becoming a grandmother to three outstanding boys, now men. Traveling the world.

This rapacious monster has changed me for the better; I am quite sure I would never be the person I am today if his death hadn’t scrubbed me clean of my old ways of seeing and being in the world.

I found a way to grieve myself whole.

My years of work with the Touchstone and Hotchkiss girls, with women of all ages, my breaks with past unhealthy relationships and experiences, my meditation practice and shamanic training, but most of all, my return to writing, the great love of my life since childhood, have stood me on new, sturdier feet.

In early loss, we survivors search for forgiveness for ourselves for what we were sure must have been our fault--something we ate while pregnant? smoking while nursing? hereditary allergies and asthma? a less than perfect marriage? uneven mothering? holding our child too tightly?

As parents, we are supposed to keep our children safe. Even though Geoff died in Italy, far from our home in Connecticut, I felt his death must be somehow my fault. It took a long time to move away from that belief.

I came to understand that all parents who have lost their children, whatever the cause--accident, disease, drugs, suicide (there are no ‘natural causes’ of death for a child who dies out of life’s ordinary order) feel this way.

Self-forgiveness is one of the first steps in what I have come to call ‘carrying your grief differently.’ Everyone in the helping professions as well as mindfulness practice talks about the importance of letting go. It had been a frightening concept to me as I know it is to many others--frightening because we imagine it means a kind of cutoff from our child, an abandonment of love--because after all, isn’t the pain of grief and loss a continued connection? Isn’t self-blame a strange way of staying close?

But no. Letting go, as I have come to understand it, involves forgiveness to self for both imagined and real faults and flaws, perhaps to the beloved child for dying, to ancillary events and people around the death. For me, it also has involved repair of important relationships, and as I said earlier, leaving those which do not nurture and support. It has involved years of sitting on a cushion at mindfulness retreats, breathing in, breathing out, hoping for release of what is called ‘complicated grief,’ which had been holding me hostage. It has meant understanding that freedom can come from surrender to what is, even if I had to practice that surrender over and over and over, still do.

And letting go has involved the willingness to take a vacation from anguish, moving away from daily dwelling on what has been lost and opening to learning who I could be without my child and the life that I had with him and that that new life can and must hold room for joy and celebration.

It has meant knowing that I have a living child, now a grown man with a wife and family, who needs and needed my love and attention too, knowing that I shortchanged him in those years of terribleness, knowing that I continue to need his forgiveness for that.

As a parent, my job has been to give our children both roots and wings--I finally came to understand that even in death, I needed to give Geoff his wings, the freedom to be wherever he is, without me.

That was the hardest part, in some strange way.

But the most essential.

                                                *********************

My deepest thanks for all the many who have supported us through these challenging years, most especially Mary Lou and Elizabeth who have always showed up, from the very first to the present.

And to Greg Kosmicki, who took the chance to publish my first full-length collection, Branch in His Hand, a memoir in poetry of all the experience of Geoff’s death and its aftermath. What a difference that made to me at such a tender time; thank you so much, Greg.

FIRST FLOOR BEDROOM

Okay, here’s yet another post involving aging, what’s mostly on my mind these days…

I’m not sure quite when the discussions with our son about the need for a first-floor bedroom began. We’d bought this 1756 farmhouse twenty-six years ago, overlooking the stairs that were easily as steep as a ladder, lost in a blur of ardent love for this old house.

I’d badly wanted out of the brick cape we’d had to buy in a hurry after selling Rockledge, an old ore mine manager’s pillared colonial on a hill. It had needed too much work, and we’d never been able to get rid of its mold, despite hours of seasonal scrubbing with TSP and Clorox. And we’d sold our Block Island barn, so we had the wherewithal to spend on something new.

(Please let us find the perfect house…)

On a whim one day, I called a real estate agent, and she took us first to see a house we’d long known. John’s hippie runaway brothers had lived there in the seventies, probably smoked a good deal of pot in its scruffy rooms. The owner’s son told us many years later that his father had hoped they’d burn the ramshackle place down.

We were so glad they hadn’t. A young couple from Brooklyn who loved old houses had bought and restored it with stunning care. A local carpenter who specialized in old houses had done all the exquisite work; his wife had helped with decorating and paint colors. As we wandered the rooms, I quickly fell in love with it. There were exposed beams, wide plank floors, fascinating color combinations, large rooms, two Rumford fireplaces, a Dutch oven. A kitchen with handmade painted cupboards, yet a Wolf range and a Sub-Zero refrigerator.

And upstairs! A master bedroom with a huge closet, hand-planed floors, chestnut beams, pickled wood for walls. Next to it, a bathroom as big as a bedroom, with a clawfoot tub as well as a modern shower, a stenciled floor, a sink made from a copper bowl mounted on an old wooden washstand.

How I loved that bathroom.

(I still do)

The property –four acres—was full of beautiful old trees, a big field, and a large barn, all of which entranced us.

The realtor showed us some other houses, but our hearts and minds stayed with the farmhouse. The steep stairs were its only drawback, but they didn’t bother either of us enough to turn down this special house.

The realtor told us that someone else was interested, so we immediately put a binder down.

(Those stairs would have made this house a really hard sell)

We moved into it in the fall of that year, when the majestic old trees were beginning to turn into the colors everyone drives up to our area to see. How I loved our new bedroom, with its giant closet all for me. And that bathroom! I could hardly believe I was really living in this wonderful old house. The chimney came up through the middle of the upstairs hall and its handsome brick face greeted me every time I walked out of our bedroom. Having grown up in a ranch house, I loved sleeping on the second floor, even just having a second floor.

(Those stairs will never be a problem for us)

I don’t know when our son began to suggest we needed a downstairs bedroom. Maybe not right away, as we were all younger then. As his family grew, pulling their bags up those steep stairs gave pause. Not for them, but for their aging parents/grandparents.

Mostly to quiet him, I called on a company that installed chair elevators, imagining that could be a solution when the time came. The man stayed for a long time, photographing, calling in to the company, taking measurements. He said it could be done.

I relaxed.

(We’re really not that old and we will never need this)

But our son did not. He continued to insist we needed a first-floor bedroom, suggested we repurpose one of the downstairs rooms, as it had a connected bathroom.  I resisted “I love sleeping on the second floor,” I protested. “And I can’t give up my closet, there’s no way to put one in that room, and no place for bureaus. Besides, I love that room as it is.”

“Why don’t you add on a closet,” he suggested.

(That would look so ugly)

“Nope.”

“Maybe you could make the garage into a bedroom?

(Our garage! We’ve never had a garage!)

“We need the garage for my car, and it’s the only storage space we have. Besides, I love having a garage attached to our house. So convenient, especially in bad weather.”

He wasn’t giving up.

“Well, then just get someone, maybe John A. (a friend who is a designer) to draw up a plan for an addition.”

“We can’t afford it.”

“Oh Mom, of course you can.”

(He is wrong on all counts, of course)

Finally, maybe six years ago, possibly just to get him off my back, I did call our friend John. He drew up some excellent plans, we got outrageous bids, I put the plans in a closet and forgot about them.

I should add that my husband agreed with me about all of this, that is, until he had his second open heart surgery in May. Weaker and suffering from balance problems, he was having difficulty navigating the stairs and used them as little as possible.

Our son resumed his entreaties.

(Damn, he’s never giving up…)

It was around that time that I’d gotten a social media response from our son’s grammar school friend Jim, who’d lived in our house growing up, as well as in the house next door that his father had built. (He was the one who’d told us that his father had hoped the hippies would burn it down, by accident of course). All the acreage around us, now developed if lightly, had been his ancestral family farm.

I’d heard that Jim had a reputation as the best carpenter in the area, and in addition to hoping to see him again, I wanted to hire him for a job that needed doing in the house. When he finally responded, he confessed he didn’t look at social media much but was so glad I’d tried to contact him.

He sent his phone number, I called immediately, and he came right over. What a joy to see him again! He and his wife, with whom he worked, did a great job on the kitchen counters, and I invited him to come and see our son and his family at Thanksgiving. During that visit, we somehow ended up getting out the bedroom plans.

(Okay, we give in. He’s right.)

Trust in him, a reasonable bid, my husband’s need, finally facing the reality of our ages and desire to stay in our home long-term, finding the available funds, all conspired to create the perfect mix for this important and long-resisted decision. 

And my closet will be even bigger in the new room.

They’re beginning tomorrow.

                                                      ******************

Once again, thank you all for reading and for your wonderful responses; I apologize for not being able to respond to all of them.

I’m so happy to announce that I entered “Moving On” in a blog post competition and won first prize. I’m now working on putting together a collection of these posts for a possible collection. Stay tuned!

LONELY

The Surgeon General has declared the state of loneliness a national health issue. I read about this in my various news sources, and while I do believe he is absolutely correct, I haven’t felt very much aware of its applicability to me. After all, I have a loyal husband of sixty years, a caring son and his wife, three special grandsons, a sister and a niece, many wonderful friends, a loving black lab, an ongoing and fulfilling teaching and writing career.

Why, many would ask, should I be lonely?

But today, I am. Deep, existential, to-the-bone lonely. My husband has been away, visiting his many relatives in the south, and the house is full of emptiness. My son lives in Europe with his wife, the grandchildren are grown and scattered across the US. My friends are busy and/or far away.

I miss them all so very much.

The weather has been abysmal, the rain the other day so torrential that it seemed like an ark would be useful. I’ve had to wear the heavy down coat I bought on sale for next year every day, it’s been so cold. The yard is full of downed branches, scattered winter flotsam.

An austere landscape, between winter and spring. Mirroring my spirit.

And I’m feeling every bit of my almost 82 years, these days, now that I am home from my halcyon month at Virginia Center for the Creative Arts where age mattered little and was easy to forget as I danced and communed with so many new creative friends.  My skin wears on it the tattoos from too much past sun exposure, my back hurts, and the eye infection I got last month has not fully healed. Sometimes, energy in abeyance, I have to push myself to walk the 4-5 miles I commit to do daily, the twice-a-week yoga classes.

But being lonely is not necessarily connected to age. I can remember depths of it at 23 as I sat with my toddler in our spartan apartment, trying to amuse him, day after day. And in my 40’s, after the kids left home for college, my husband and I working hard in our careers, seeing little of each other. Then especially after my younger son died and nothing could soothe me. Also, there have been the years of living in a community in which I have long felt the lack of kindred spirits.

Of course, I could choose not to write about this, knowing a now pervasive mood will pass, and I toy with the idea of not even finishing this post. “Too depressing,” I hear my mother say from her grave. But my heart says, write it, write the hard stuff, as I always tell my writing students. Write what scares you, what’s uncomfortable, expose what you want to hide.

Follow the thread you’ve begun to unravel, see where it takes you.

Pema Chodron (When Things Fall Apart), always my go-to when things get rough, has this to say on the subject: (I notice I have it underlined from a previous reading)

Usually we regard loneliness as an enemy. Heartache is not something we choose to invite in. It’s restless and pregnant and hot with the desire to escape and find something or someone to keep us company. When we can rest in the middle, we begin to have a non-threatening relationship with loneliness, a relaxing and cooling loneliness that completely turns our usual fearful patterns upside down.

She goes on:

There are six ways of describing this kind of cool loneliness. They are: less desire, contentment, avoiding unnecessary activity, complete discipline, not wandering in the world of desire, and not seeking security from one’s discursive thoughts.

It’s the first one that catches me now --“the willingness to be lonely without resolution when everything in us yearns for something to cheer us up and change our mood.”

Maybe that’s what I’m doing by writing about it--trying to change my mood? But no, I have always felt and in fact preached as a therapist, writer, and teacher, that writing from the heart helps us to plunge ever deeper into the difficult and embrace it completely, however contradictory and painful that might feel.

The loneliness I feel today is completely pure, uncontaminated by any other feeling, spare of any thought. It just is.

I am abruptly reminded of a poem I wrote so many years ago:

GRIEF

an absolute purity
within the borders

everything slow
like the shimmer of heat
off summer asphalt

everything dry
like grains of dirt
in a drought

a hummingbird whirring
at the honeysuckle
hollyhocks higher
than the barn roof

all equal now
a shared condition

doesn’t everyone die?
doesn’t everyone seek rapture?

and this is rapture, really
the untainted longing
the total un-ambivalence
the utter, immaculate emptiness.

Yes. That’s how I feel now. Stripped clean, empty.

As always, it’s a relief to name it, capture what has felt uncomfortable, painful, unwanted. And maybe, just maybe, what I’m feeling has a link to this time of year-- after all, Good Friday is this week, and though I no longer practice the Catholic faith I was born into, my girl-bones recall hours of sitting in church on that day, the somberness of the Stations of the Cross, the mournful chanting, the incense, and yes, the profound loneliness of Christ on that bloody cross.

And then arrives E Pasqua!  It suddenly comes to me-- why the loneliness, why the grief.  We were in Italy 37 years ago with our son at Easter, the last time we saw him alive.

How could I feel anything else?

MOVING ON

“Letting there be room for not knowing is the most important thing of all. When there's a big disappointment, we don't know if that's the end of the story. It may just be the beginning of a great adventure. Life is like that. We don't know anything. We call something bad; we call it good. But really we just don't know.”

~ Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart: 
Heart Advice for Difficult Times

I gave a reading of my poetry two nights ago, here at the Virginia Center for the Arts, and it was incredibly well-received; there couldn’t have been a better audience. I felt great, the poems I chose made a good arc, and the discussion afterwards was excellent.

Since then, I’ve been totally unable to even start a poem. And, what’s more surprising, I don’t feel a desire to do so, even here at the place where I’ve always been easily able to sink into the “zone” where the part of my brain that is responsible for creating is nourished and supported.

I’ve always committed myself to write a poem a day, or at least a draft, while I am here.

So, I’m reading some of the many poetry books I’ve brought with me for inspiration. I stare at the notes and images, phrases, I’ve scrawled on a legal pad next to me as I read. Usually that immediately sets me up to begin writing— some thought or word triggers the idea for a poem and my pen begins to move.

Not today, not yesterday.

I look at the poems I’ve pinned to the cork board in my studio and feel a strange distance from them—like they’ve been written by someone else

What is happening?

Yesterday a friend sent me an article about writing that included this quote: “Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” (Gene Fowler)

I feel a little like that.

The other afternoon I became engaged in conversation with another woman here with whom I’ve been spending a lot of time. I said to her that I felt I was on a bridge to somewhere other than where I was now but couldn’t articulate this new place. It was a blur.

I told her I felt full, but empty at the same time.

I explored ideas with her. Maybe I should give up writing? No, that would be impossible. Maybe just read novels for the rest of my time here? Possibly take naps and hang out? Go home? Sign up for another one of Ellen Bass’s ‘Living Room Craft Talks,’ Be patient with myself and see what comes?

Maybe that.

It feels like the end of something, and then the space before what comes next. I remember now having this feeling before I ended my therapy practice, and then when I knew it was time to relinquish my years of work with Touchstone and my beloved delinquent girls.

But both of those times, I was overstressed, struggling with so much to do. I didn’t have the luxury of time to sink into that transitional space and really explore it, truly be there, though I did write about it in my memoir, I Am Not a Juvenile Delinquent.

I do now. It’s scary. I don’t know if it’s bad, if it’s good. 

During a phone call this morning, my husband laughingly reminds me that guilt is an old friend of mine. But I don’t really feel guilt, nor do I feel the pressure to succeed that has characterized much of my life. I’ve been having fun here, engaging in long breakfast and after-dinner conversations with a diverse array of people here, mostly women, not pushing myself to get back to the studio and write.

It is just so surprising. So expansive. So supportive.

I feel fully fledged, untangled. Ripe. Not just because everyone here is so much younger than I am, either. Maybe that’s it. Maybe this weird new place is what I’ve been striving for without being conscious of it, Full adulthood. Maturity. A state in which I have more choices than I’ve ever had, despite my age. Freedom.

Yes, that’s it. Freedom. 

So, what do I do with it? What’s the action plan, I ask myself.

Maybe just sit in its spaciousness and listen. See what comes. Be content.

For now, anyway.

                                                  *******************

And guess what? I wrote a poem I really liked the very next day.

STUFF

I’m at a writing residency, struggling with what to write next—blog post, another poem? Just now I walked over to the kitchen, where we go to pick up our box lunches. I usually come back to my studio to eat so as not to be distracted from what I’m working on by the desire to chat, as there are always fellows (that’s what we are called here) there, but today I sat down and ate my tofu salad with A and C, badly needing the break of human connection.

New people are constantly arriving and it’s hard to get everyone’s names remembered. I asked them if they knew of a certain P, whom another friend had asked me to connect with and hug for her. Amazingly, as soon as they described her to me, P walked in.

This total stranger and I shared a huge embrace and immediately began a long conversation, about residencies we’d attended, our mutual friend, what we were both writing or not writing, writers we knew, dancing, the necessity of finding a ride to the local thrift shop.

That’s what it’s like here.

I told her that I’d been writing a blog for the last four years and was thinking about a way to put some of the pieces together in a collection, but that the prospect of doing that was so overwhelming that I was avoiding it.

I told her how much I admired the writing of Abigail Thomas (Still Life at Eight, Safekeeping) and emulated her ability to mix tragedy and grief with humor, short pieces and long pieces, subjects of all kinds in her essay collections. I loved the wonderful off-handedness and exuberant feel of her writing, like she’d just dashed it all off in minutes.

I wanted to write like that.

As P and I talked, the half-finished piece I’d labored over that morning was in the back of my mind, along with the knowledge that it wasn’t working, felt stilted. I’d been doing what I say writers shouldn’t do, pushing the piece in a certain direction instead of letting its trajectory surprise me. I’d wanted to use a particular title and picture, was trying to make all my ideas fit into the framework they’d offered.

And it was just too serious.

I was tired of writing about my aging, all the friends who have died in the last few months, how terrifying the world is right now.

That’s why I’d needed that kitchen break.

P and I began talking about the process of packing up to come here. I told her I almost walked out of the house leaving my computer, books, pads and notes behind in my study, so busy had I been shoving clothing, toiletries, pills, pillow. coffeepot, coffee, bottles of wine, boots and shoes into the car. (In honesty, it was my husband who carefully manipulated the piles and bags I’d scattered all over our mudroom into an intricate puzzle in the back of our Volvo).

We talked about stuff—how much more we had, or I had, now that I had the wherewithal to buy what I wanted, and the space in which to store it--instead of the long-ago days when there was no money to buy much of anything, and if there was, it would have been for the kids. And how it had been such a simpler time, without the mountain of available options we have now; you had to go to an actual store to buy a sweater or a pair of sneakers instead of typing your choices into a computer.

“If you wrote a piece called ‘Stuff,” I would read it right away,” said P, laughing.

She told me her apartment was cluttered with books on how to get rid of clutter, which set us both to more laughter.

I told her how I spent too much time just managing my stuff. Washing, cleaning, ironing, folding, recycling it to friends and resale shops, ordering and returning, printing labels, finding packaging and tape. And that’s just for clothes and shoes. Then there are the piles of files and books heaped in my study, and the mementoes from all our travels scattered throughout our home.

P said she’d carefully chosen what to bring, but she was already feeling the need to go online and order more things.

“Me too!” I said, knowing I’d found a kindred spirit. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve bought and returned a coat and a pair of hiking boots, ordered a new pillow and a pair of overalls like J’s.”

“We’ve got to go to the thrift shop in Amherst, “P said excitedly. “They have such great quality stuff. You will love it. We just need to find someone with a car to take us there.”

It will be a fun diversion, I think, even though I’m guessing we will probably buy more things we don’t need and end up bringing them to thrift shops at home or giving it away.

Stuff.

My husband—probably because he’s a man—has no comprehension of the pure enjoyment of the chase—scrolling through endless choices on the internet, or in a store, rummaging through racks of schlock to find the perfect __________ (shirt, jacket, shawl, tea kettle--fill in the blank). And, as I point out to him, it’s easy for him to be a minimalist because he doesn’t need wrinkle creams, silver bracelets, particular items of lady underwear, yoga clothes, or outfits for different occasions.

But he and I both are excellent at accumulating piles of paper, years of greeting cards, old bills, cookbooks, kitchen gadgets, garden supplies, funny socks, baseball caps, canvas bags of all shapes and sizes.

And more. So much more.

Yikes. When I get home in a few weeks, it may be time to assess all this stuff of ours, of mine, what to keep, what to give away, what to throw out. I do love my things, even the old blue sweater or the silky striped shirt from Zara that I’ve never even worn once, the coat I bought in Taos, all my silver jewelry.

But I promise myself to go through the baskets of old letters, thousands (yes thousands) of books, files of articles, poems and recipes, photo albums and greeting cards, a big plastic garbage bag next to me, ready to sift and toss.

After all, I’m almost 82. It’s time.

Wish me luck.

                                           *******************

There is a space in my Wisdom House weekend writing retreat April 12-14 https://www.wisdomhouse.org/program-calendar/womenswritingretreat-

Thanks, everyone, for reading these posts, and please know you can take yourself off the list anytime if you prefer not to get them.

THE REPAIR SHOP

Even my fifteen-year-old Saab is in better shape than I seem to be these days. It only needs a visit to the repair shop once a year, when lately I seem to be constantly in need of one.

Who knew there was such a thing as a calcium score? I certainly didn’t, but my doctor said I had to have one, explaining that it would show how much plaque I’d accumulated in my coronary arteries, since the recent blood tests I’d had showed a relatively high cholesterol reading, something I’d never had prior to now.

Foolish woman, I believed that my long low readings, healthy meat-free diet, consistent exercise, and generally good health would obviate any need for statins and keep plaque at bay.

“Aging can raise cholesterol,” my doctor said, insisting I go for the above test.

As it turned out, I am fine, within normal range for my age. Maybe the blood test result was a mistake? But I had to take half a day and $100 to find out (no Medicare coverage for this test).

This week I have a bone density test on Monday, an eye exam on Thursday, an appointment with a neurosurgeon nearly two hours away on Friday. Last week I had a nerve ablation to ease my severe back pain--it didn’t. And then there was the root canal in late December. The trip back to UConn, also last week, to find out why I still was having pain in the tooth, even though it had lost its nerve.

My life, this part of which I’d hope to devote to writing, is continually encumbered by journeys to what I’ve laughingly taken to calling “the repair shop.” And in between mine are my husband’s--dermatology, neurology, cardiac rehab, and PT. Our shared calendar is awash in a plethora of these listings.

Two days a week, I’m at a yoga class; every day I suit up in long underwear and double mittens to walk 4-5 miles. After my back surgery in 2008, I know I must engage in these activities to maintain my agility--it’s not really a choice. Now, I worry that my chronic unalleviated back torment will require another surgical intervention; last week, my pain management MD puzzled over the positioning of my L4-L5 hardware thinking it could be twisted(?).

Hopefully I misunderstood him. But I am trying to imagine there could be a more permanent fix than the thrice-yearly epidural cortisone injections I get for the compressed nerve in my left leg.

But, as they say in Ireland, it could be worse.

Of course, it could be worse! I don’t have cancer or the dreaded Alzheimer’s as many friends do. I don’t wear hearing aids and my eyes are fine, no cataract surgery on the horizon. My mammogram of a few weeks ago was normal. I haven’t broken anything, nor have I had body parts replaced. Despite my mottled and fragile skin, I’ve had no serious lesions. The multitude of CBD/THC creams I use for pain and restless legs seem to work much of the time.

And I’m not complaining, even though I sound like I am. I’m so fortunate to have insurance coverage for all these issues, a car with which to drive to these appointments, a supportive husband, and genetic good luck (mother who lived to be a hundred, father close to it). 

I’m still healthy, active, and vital.

But I never suspected what large chunks of time and energy excursions to these various repair shop trips would dominate. Even that so much of our social life is taken up with what some friends laughingly call “organ recital.”

And that funerals and memorial services would comprise much of said social life.

As a young, even middle-aged person, I had little idea of what aging would bring.

And having such physically healthy parents gave me the illusion that I would remain so until--when? 

The when is now. The body keeps the score, as the excellent book with that title (Bessel Van der Kolk) reminds us, stating A constant sense of danger and helplessness promotes the continuous secretion of stress hormones, which wreaks havoc with the immune system and the functioning of the body’s organs.

Hmm. I definitely don’t want that to happen.

So, what to do, faced with my almost 82 years, my inevitable aging, the body’s inevitable decline?

Be grouchy and regretful that my youth is behind me, maintain some delusion that I’ll be spared any of a number of ailments, accidents, needs for patching up, that will bring me to even more repair shops? Grasp onto the many comments I receive registering surprise that I’m the age I say I am?  Allowing those stress hormones to hijack what remains of my life?

Or embrace uncertainty, fragility, reality.

It’s a delicate dance. I suddenly remember the mantra I’ve long espoused--“Live every day like it’s your last. Live every day like you will live forever.” As usual, paradox is what makes the most sense. There is the inescapable reality of my almost 82 years, maybe a decade, hopefully more, left to live--but also the facing of the bumpy road of inevitability, of surprise.

I could trip over a curb, slip on an icy patch, be in the path of an oncoming car, get another blood test that, this time, shows serious illness--tomorrow--or any day in the future. My commitment to healthy living gives no insurance I will be spared.

So, I will continue my trips to these various repair shops, offering my body the mending it needs, no matter the travel or frustration, no matter my wish for it to be otherwise. I will try to embrace, even to love, the aging me, the surprising new iteration of Sharon--and even try to experience some enjoyment exploring this virgin terrain.

 

                                                     *******************

I’ll be offering a writing/exploring workshop at Wisdom House in Litchfield, CT on March 13, “Isn’t It Weird to Be the Same Age As Old People,”https://www.wisdomhouse.org/program-c...!

I leave at the end of January for a month’s residency at my beloved Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where I’ll be working on new poems--most likely, about aging, since I’m developing such expertise on this subject

And PS: Bone density showed I have osteoporosis of the hip, which means an hour and a half Reclast infusion when I return from my residency. Bones look like swiss cheese in the readout I saw.

But I’m thrilled to have signed a contract for my third full-length poetry collection, “What’s After Making Love,” with Fernwood Press-- I’ll be 83 when it comes out---it’s pretty much the story of my life in poems.