Michelle L. Rusk's Blog, page 21

The Summer Routine Returns

It felt strange not to go to the gym and swim this morning. Except for a statewide virus shutdown in November, I had pretty much been there every weekday morning to swim between 30 and 60 minutes since September. And for the past few months, I’d been there Monday through Friday to swim at 6:00 am, after I had run the dogs and then been on my run.

While I am ready for the summer routine– to swim in the afternoon sun and let the dogs run around the pool (after Ash announces to all the neighbors that I’ve gotten into to the pool)– I was sad Friday because it was like the end of the school year.

I know I’ll be back there in late September, but I also know that things won’t be the same because going to the gym each morning for the swim as part of how I coped with the pandemic.

All those mornings I had a community of people talk to, to lament the weather, the temperature of the pool water, and the world events that swirled around us. I find so much peace in the water, it’s almost as if nothing can bother me while I swim (except maybe the person in the lane next to me, but I won’t delve into that today).

I don’t function as well in the winter. While I’m really not an outdoor sports person, I do need to be outside and that’s why I run in the bitter cold, even though I’m slow because it’s harder to breathe and I hate the time it takes to bundle myself up and then remove the bundle when I’m done.

Swimming outside in a heated pool helped me not just cope with the cold months, but the pandemic as well. There is something about being alive in the cold, the darkness, and seeing the stars, the planets, and the moon. I could feel alive and be reminded of the wonders of life and our world. And those sunrises! There were two brilliant ones; this photo is of one of them.

But it’s time for change. My body is ready to sleep a little later in the morning and my mind is ready to finish the workday with a swim. This also allows me to write earlier in the morning, giving me more time to focus on the quality of my writing rather than just trying to tap out a quantity each day.

Change is good, it means moving forward. But it’s also hard to leave behind something that I know brought me so much peace through many challenges. Still, in the back of my mind, I have to remind myself that the pool will be there for me when the temperatures start to dip in the fall.

Just like an old friend, the stable kind who lets you and come and go as you need to.

Mom and Dad

While I’m writing this on April 26– I usually write my blogs the day before I post them to social media– chances are, you are reading this on April 27, what would have been my parents’ 58th wedding anniversary.

The reality is that my parents didn’t have a happy marriage. I can say that out loud and on the internet because they aren’t here anymore. It’s just like when I wrote my first book about my sister’s suicide and I had to tell them before it was published, “Remember, this is how I saw things as they happened.” Sometimes there are things you don’t say because you don’t want to hurt people.

It’s sad for me to say that they weren't happy, but I also don’t think it’s worth walking around saying they were happy when they weren’t.

And it feels like recently that I’ve had more friends lose not one parent but a second one, leaving them without a living parent. Like me.

Being without living parent makes you feel somewhat disconnected from the world because the two people who brought you into the world, who helped you become who you are (for good or bad) aren’t here anymore. There’s another thing that happens during grief though, something that happens and we often aren’t aware of so we don’t understand our emotions relating to it.

When a parent dies, we also grieve what we never had with them. For each of us that it is going to be something different because we had unique relationships. Sure, there are threads through all our relationships, but none of us has exactly the same story of our lives.

I have often told the story that my dad’s way of showing his love for me was to buy groceries. He would show up at my apartment in Muncie, Indiana, where I was attending Ball State University with a trunk filled with styrofoam coolers that had Budget Gourmet frozen dinners in them. He would never tell me he loved me. He bought me groceries. That was who he was.

My mom never wanted anything more than to have a family and I’m sure it was hard to accept that my dad wasn’t that interested in us kids (even though there were four of us), but I’m sure my dad got married and had kids because at that time, that’s what you did– you married, you had a family. Had he been a young person now, I’m not sure he would have married or had a family. That meant my mom spent her life trying to make up for what he didn’t give us. And that was hard on her because she struggled to love herself, particularly because the polio had left her with a limp that put a big hole in her self confidence.

I’m not writing this for anyone to feel sorry for me. I’m writing this because once we understand what we are grieving– because grief is confusing and sometimes we don’t understand what’s behind the sadness– it makes it easier to process and move forward.

My parents are both out of their emotional and physical pain from this life. They did the best they could with the skills and backgrounds that they had. They gave me a longer list of things than what they didn’t give me. I know they are still with me, cheering me on. If anything, I just wish this life had been a happier one for them.

Replenishment

Last week I talked about the importance of doing things that bring us joy when we’re faced with what seems like an endless list of routine items to trudge through. But there’s another part of that, taking the time to replenish ourselves, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

After I busy weekend, I usually don’t find myself ready to face Monday and its long list of item to start the week. I also find that my view of the world has become somewhat negative and I have to stop myself, reminding myself to take a step back and remember that I feel down the world and people because I’m tired. That means I also need to find a way to refill that half empty cup.

If I’m feeling physically exhausted, I might move up an acupuncture appointment (nap time!) or make it a priority to spend time on the couch reading. But my emotional side needs something different, usually some sort of project I haven't had time for and would like to do. It has to be something that inspires the creative side to me. For whatever reason, that often is where I find my replenish most of the time. I feel fortunate that I know that though as it has helped me coped with so many challenges in my life.

For each of us, what we need will differ. I know that each time, it might be different and I try to honor that because I also know filling my cup up again is what keeps me fueled to keep going and engaged in the world and the life around me.

Not Just a Well-Lived Life

I believe in the importance of a well-lived life. However, recently, as I reflected back on the past year, I believe it’s something more than that.

I have talked about how it was important for me, and I believe for all of us, to take advantage of the opportunity we had during the pandemic, when we weren’t able to do many of the usual activities in our lives that give us joy (for me, one of those was hosting pool parties and dinner parties), to do other things that maybe we’ve been putting off or just want to do. However, as I think back on the past year, I know that I created many items for Chelle Summer, yet it felt as if something was missing.

I realize that sounds silly because one of my frequent early morning prayers is to not just have a productive day, but to make the most of the day ahead of me. That’s when it struck me that it’s also about having meaningful day, a meaningful life.

A better way, I believe, to put it is to have a well-lived meaningful life.

I can be productive– I can clean my house and do the laundry and that’s productive. But, really, it doesn’t bring me great joy beyond the satisfaction of knowing a weekly chore has been accomplished.

Instead, there has to be something more to the day, something that brings meaning to it for me. Usually, that’s in spending some time being creative. Yesterday, I painted a bedroom wall, a bathroom ceiling, and a nightstand. After taking Saturday to clean the house (not joyful!), but then taking Sunday to do several things that were creative and happy, they brought me great joy.

Each day we have is a gift, yes, but we also need to find those aspects of it that make it meaningful, that spark our joy, that keep us inspired to get up and do it again tomorrow.

One Step, Even a Small One, at a Time

Without realizing it (can I blame the pandemic?), I have turned into a very molasses kind of runner. I feel like I run as fast as the molasses pours out of a jar when I’m measuring it for something. Honestly, I didn’t catch it and I don’t know why or how it happened. My only thought is that I don’t take days off as I’ve had no travel for a year. Usually, travel is my break– not just from running, but from my routine as well. However, I kept running because it also helped keep my spirit afloat during this time.

The weather has turned warmer in New Mexico and, finally, I’m feeling the need to run faster, too. There is a correlation– it’s much harder to run in the winter than the warmer months. However, I don’t think I can blame the winter for my running woes either.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to motivate myself to go faster, to get out of that comfort zone that I’ve gotten so used to. I started to think about the Eleanor Roosevelt quote that I posted on social media last week, about doing the one thing you don’t believe you can do.

Apparently, I don’t think I can go faster. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s work. But if I’m running for a total of six miles (three of those are with the dogs on their respective runs), how can I keep up the mental aspect?

Baby steps.

I don’t mean take small steps as I run, but to take small steps toward running faster. Like anything else in life we shouldn’t try to do too much at once because it will most likely lead to failure. It’s been to work at running hard for a block, then allowing myself to slow down for a block (or two), before picking it up for another block.

It’s a long, slow road, just like a lot of movement forward is now (including somehow resuming the old routines in our lives even as we have changed in some ways over the past years). But I also know that the long, slow will eventually pay off. The key is to chip away at it bit by bit.

And each morning to tell myself that I can do that one thing I don’t believe I can do. And that’s to run at least faster again.

The Universe Jots a Message

Life at my house has gone from 0 to 100 mph in recent weeks with Greg’s return to school and then his team getting to play an actual (although shortened) soccer season. Two months ago, it didn’t look like there would be a return to school this spring, much less a soccer season. I really thought I would have a quiet March where I could complete a few projects before starting to get busy for the summer months.

That’s a different direction from what happened because as we stand here at the end of March, I have no idea where it went. And while there are many good things happening and my feeling overwhelmed is more related to getting back to a routine that has been missing for a year since Greg was home with me instead of at school, there is a part of me that feels like I’m on a road and I have no idea what’s next.

I know what I want to be next– I want to fly Chelle Summer forward in double time after missing a year of making things happen. And I know that will happen. But what’s unknown right now is how long it will take to catch up and move past where I left off on that board game. That’s the hardest part now– I don’t quite sure know when events will not just return, but when people will start to feel comfortable spending money on themselves.

I didn’t think much of the dime I saw in a checkout at a store yesterday, choosing not to pick it up because, well, I just didn’t feel connected to it. I didn’t feel the need that I needed it. I saw it, moved on, and went on with my day with two bags of dog rawhides tucked into the crook of my arm.

But in the darkness of the parking lot of the gym pool this morning, my mask somehow stuck at the bottom of my bag and not in the pocket where I usually leave it so I had to stop and find it before I got to the front door of the building, out of the corner of my eye I saw a shiny penny staring up at me.

It had been a long time, but there was the dime and penny combination that I had gotten to know so well. And it was then that I realized the universe had jotted a message to me. All is well, the universe said, stay the course, don’t fret– although the universe knows I will– you will get there.

The Vaccination

I have had mixed emotions about sharing the fact that I was vaccinated a week ago.

A year ago, when this all started, I thought I would definitely share when I got vaccinated for one major reason- my mom had polio.

All I could think as the pandemic raged on was what a challenge life was for her because she had polio when she was six, in the early 1940s when there was no vaccine. She walked with a limp the rest of her life and I know it affected my life in many ways via the emotional challenges she faced with that limp. I remember once watching home movies and I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to watch. I must have egged her on because she finally said, “Because I don’t like the way I walk.”

Getting vaccinated was not a no brainer for me though. As someone who experiences chemical intolerances I knew that chances were good I would face some sort of rash (I did). However, I also knew there were things I want to do and without a vaccination, I would not be able to pursue them.

However, the flip side was watching many people get vaccinated and, while wanting to share their excitement and happiness, a sense of freedom that comes with it, I wondered if they were aware of the frustration of those who really wanted the vaccine, but couldn’t get it. I felt if I shared it, I would be gloating.

When I finally let go of the questioning of when my opportunity would come, it came back to me, as if I had thrown the boomerang to the universe and it came back to me. I have been very grateful, shaking my head that once again I was taught a lesson that when you let go, things come back. I am very grateful for the opportunity and, because of the allergies, that I received the Johnson & Johnson vaccine, not subjecting me to more than one shot or opportunity of an itchy mess all over my body.

And there was one more thing. On Wednesday, the 24th, my mom will be gone seven years. I share this for her, for the life and hope she never had because of what polio did to her. None of us know what might happen, but if we’re given an opportunity to help ourselves, we should never turn it down.

A Year Passes

Has it really been a year since the pandemic started? Has it really been a year since Hattie died?

I don’t feel this need to acknowledge that a year has passed so much as I can’t believe a year has passed.

Then I think about my first thoughts when the pandemic started and everything shut down. It was most important to me that I didn’t look back on it, also believing it would only last weeks if not a few months, feeling like I had wasted my time. I saw some people so angry they were paralyzed by it while others seemed to exhausted from the busy-ness of their lives and routines (mostly people with children), that when they ere given a chance to sit down, they realized they were too tired do to anything.

For me, I felt like it was an opportunity where, because I couldn’t go anywhere or have dinner parties, that I could work work work. I could sew and write and create. I also thought there were some house projects that should have been completed, just maintenance stuff like touch-up painting.

So what have done in the past year? Well, I had hoped to have a manuscript completed and I did write, I wrote a lot, this past year, but, as Greg said, it wasn’t intensive writing. It was much more of a challenge to write with Greg around the corner teaching excitedly online (after all, you can’t be a quiet person and teach a foreign language– you need some pizzaz and be a little, well, nutty). It made it harder for me to focus when I was used to the quiet of the house. So I did write, I just didn’t complete one project and instead worked on several. It’s not really something I’m proud of, but if one thing doesn’t come together, I work on what is coming together so at least there are multiple baskets of eggs and things are in process.

The sewing, however, that’s where it was at. While I always have more things I want to do, the Chelle Summer closet is overflowing with items waiting to be sold and be enjoyed by someone. Many days, it was the thing I could do, I could create, I could sew. When I was upset with the world, I went and made something which helped me feel like I hadn’t wasted my day getting caught up in the anger of others.

The house painting didn’t happen, but I suppose you can’t have everything. The reality is that I can at least walk away from the past year knowing that I was as productive as possible and that, hopefully, as things open up, the items I made will find new homes in the coming future days. And I know that my sewing skills made a huge leap forward, too. And, while this wasn’t the year I wanted to have, it was a year that I can honestly say things did move forward. It’s just that sometimes they don’t move forward in the way we want or expect them too.

The Ember of Hope

As I approach the 28th anniversary of my sister Denise's suicide later this month, I debated what message I would want to convey. I didn't know right up until Greg hit play on the video recording, but here it is, very reflective of where my journey is today.

Lent 2021

We were eating cheese soup the night before Ash Wednesday, the same day this photo was taken, and having a discussion about what we could give up for Lent.

I don’t normally give anything up, instead choosing a journey that usually revolves around writing, the way that I feel draws me closer to God. And what I believe Lent is about. But for some reason, this year I felt the need for a change, a dietary change, one that would ultimately help me in the future because I do know my body is getting older and since I had surgery nearly three years ago, the reset from the anesthesia changed things metabolically.

I have made a lot of changes in our diet– we don’t eat a lot of sugar or bread. Or even meat, but that wasn’t something I ever ate a lot of in the first place. What was it that we could do that would make a difference?

Cheese.

We decided to give up cheese. We chose this because, ironically as we were eating cheese soup, it would involve not work, but creativity. It means we can’t eat at some of our favorite restaurants for another month, but it also means that we can eat more at Saigon City, our favorite Vietnamese place. And Gyros, too.

I heard somewhere on Ash Wednesday, maybe it was the mass I was streaming here, that we should give up something that will be work, that will draw us closer to God.

As I packed up all the cheese from the refrigerator to put it in the freezer, I was joking to myself how we were making this desert journey without the cheese. But it didn’t seem like something insurmountable. Instead, I thought about how it would be creative. I’ve had to think about how to prepare food differently– cream soup instead of cheese soup, what other foods do we like that don’t involve cheese?

That’s when I remembered that I draw closer to God when I am creative. This is a different way of doing that, a way I hadn’t thought about before. A journey that I’m enjoying instead of dreading. The change is a good one. I’ll be happy to eat pizza and huevos rancheros again, however, I’ll also have learned something about myself in the process as I spend 40 days journeying in the desert thinking about how to do something differently.