I did not have a big expensive party, or dinner or even go anywhere. I stayed home, in my mountain house, all weekend with Lexie, my buddy and sweet friend. We had no visitors and no long phone calls with family or friends. For these two days I was totally mindful, as I understand it.
I did only what brought me joy.
Listening to the rain and distant thunder gave me a peaceful feeling. Watching the leaves of the oak trees so close to my window as they danced in the wind, wet with the precious rain, made me smile.
Lying on my sofa watching a history-based story with period costumes on my TV with Lexie curled up in the circle made by my knees and the back of the sofa opened my heart and filled it with gratitude for all I have.
Waking in the early morning in my own bed, knowing I could sleep for awhile longer if I wished, with no pressure to get up and do something. What a blessing that is. No one needs me to do anything I don't want to do. I can sleep and sleep is such a healing practice for me. Eight or more hours of sleep banish pain in my body. Works better than pills and shots.
Having time - precious time - to do just what I want to do, reminded me that I have too much going on in my life, going and doing, and I asked myself, "What do I really want to do with the precious life I have left?"
In October I have another birthday, and it is a milestone, marking the weight of the Third Act of Glenda's Life. What will the next year hold for me? Every year I vow to reach out to family and friends, those who live far away and those who live near me. It seems to me, I never do enough. I am always so busy with other things. But I know that whatever I can do to make my loved ones know I care for them and that they are in my thoughts, is more than doing nothing.
One of my favorite things to do is listen to educational podcasts. I did that this weekend. I am a life-long learner, but I would not like to sit in classes for hours a day or be required to write or discuss my thoughts.
Having time to listen to others, agree or disagree with them, was one of the most delightful things about this weekend. I had time to digest what I heard and make up my mind as to what I believed.
I intentionally avoided the news of the day, of the world, and found my life more relaxed and at peace. Why should I hear all the awful things reported when there is nothing I can do about it? Instead, I listened to music. I danced and I sang.
I became aware this weekend, alone with my thoughts and with my little Lexie, that the worst of grieving the loss of Barry, my husband of 45 years, is finally beginning to wane and I can finally say, I am happy just being with me and my things in my place.
I am enough. I don't need anyone else to make me happy or full-filled. Do you feel that way, those of you who have lost your beloved people?
I knew in the fall of 2009 that I would go on with my life, and that I must do something to fill the time, but must also do something beneficial to others. For ten years I have taught senior adults to write about their lives. I have provided a place for writers to come and learn from excellent poets and writers. I was inspired to teach by my mentor, the late Nancy Simpson, poet and friend. I was encouraged by other writers and friends and appreciated by many of them. I am grateful to writers, Karen Paul Holmes, Joan Howard, many of my guest instructors, who never fail to let me know their thoughts on what I do.
Mary Mike Keller and Estelle Rice, visual and literary artists and my best friends, have been there for years through my mourning time and through theirs. How many have friends like that?
Also this weekend, I smiled when I thought of my sister, Gay, who is having the time of her life. She is dancing two or three times each week with wonderful dancers who let her finally do for herself what she always enjoyed most. After years of taking care of loved ones and being there for others, she has made the decision to do what she loves to do. The joy in her voice is exhilarating. It reminds me: We should never think it is too late to follow our dreams.
It is never too late to make a change in who we are. It is never too late to stop and let life show us who we are and what we really want. Be still and listen.
So, my dear readers, although you have been there through my pain and sorrow, welcome to my happiness. I hope your weekend has been all you wanted it to be. See you next week when I hope to have my essay on John Cecil Council finished and posted.
Leave me a comment or email me: gcbmountaingirl@gmail.com
Showing posts with label being alone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label being alone. Show all posts
Sunday, June 23, 2019
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Two Buttermilks for Pamela
We all need connections with other people. Listening to Pope Francis talking to children who live in difficult situations, some homeless, some who have lost parents, I was struck with his emphasis on staying connected with others.
I thought about the many elderly or ill people who are home-bound or have no family near. Often their sons or daughters are busy with their own lives, their children, and don't seem to have time to visit. Popping a head in the door to say, "Are you all right?" is not a visit.
After my mother, age 70, recovered from an aneurysm that left her unable to drive and with no short-term memory, she still enjoyed her children's visits. Some found it hard to spend time with her because of her loss of memory. I was fortunate that she and I could talk and we loved being together. My sister, Gay, and I often took Mother to the Dairy Queen where she ordered a banana split. She could not eat it all, but it was her favorite and, even though we reminded her that she could not eat all of it, she insisted the banana split was what she wanted.
The last ten years of my mother's life had a large gap where something was missing. Her brain swelled from the hemorrhage that took place in her artery. She almost died.
When she lived, to the surprise of her doctors, we took her home and began to program her brain with pictures and tales that eventually brought her back to a place where she knew our names and recognized her home. We had to tell her that her parents and many of her siblings were dead. It broke my heart when she cried. She lived those losses all over again because she didn't remember their passing.
Her memory of her childhood and even early marriage was vivid, so we talked about what she could tell me. Because I am curious and ask questions, I heard all of her stories. She told me about the dance parties in the community each Saturday night when she was young.
"They rolled up the rug and pushed the chairs back against the wall," Mother said. I could see the joy in her eyes when she remembered those happy times. She smiled as she talked. "Coy would walk me to the dance, but he wouldn't dance with me. It was fine with me. I had plenty of boys who asked and I danced until the party ended. Then, Coy walked me to my house. If we stayed on the front porch too long, Mama let us know."
Coy was my father so I knew, even though he didn't dance, they fell in love. He asked her to marry him when she was eighteen.
Mother knew the history of my father's family as well as she knew her own. I learned about my aunts and uncles on both sides. She told me about her little brother who died, and how her mother became very protective of her next son, my uncle Rudolph. The entire family adored Rudy and I understood why. When Mother was in Intensive Care and didn't know anyone, he came to the hospital and visited her often. I can still see him, tall and thin, a slight smile on his face, standing beside her bed feeding her like she was a baby. She didn't know his name, but she knew she loved him and he loved her. I could tell by the trusting way she looked up at him as he spooned soup into her mouth.
I was fortunate to come from a loving family and to know that being connected to others is healthy and important to living a long life. For several years Barry and I delivered Meals on Wheels to men and women living alone here in the mountains. Some of them could no longer cook for themselves and the hot meal they received every day gave them the nutrition they might not have received if left on their own. However, I think the most important part of delivering those meals was going inside, giving a hug, speaking with them, and letting them know someone cared. I think we had a few on our route who saw no one all day other than the people who delivered the meals.
Just that connection brightened their days. All the television in the world cannot replace human touch and a human voice. Even telephone calls cannot replace the visit of someone who cares.
I wrote a poem about one of the women we saw each month. She was ninety and still able to live alone. I often think about Pamela. You can find that poem here.
If you have the time and are able, delivering Meals on Wheels in your community is a very worthwhile program.
I thought about the many elderly or ill people who are home-bound or have no family near. Often their sons or daughters are busy with their own lives, their children, and don't seem to have time to visit. Popping a head in the door to say, "Are you all right?" is not a visit.
After my mother, age 70, recovered from an aneurysm that left her unable to drive and with no short-term memory, she still enjoyed her children's visits. Some found it hard to spend time with her because of her loss of memory. I was fortunate that she and I could talk and we loved being together. My sister, Gay, and I often took Mother to the Dairy Queen where she ordered a banana split. She could not eat it all, but it was her favorite and, even though we reminded her that she could not eat all of it, she insisted the banana split was what she wanted.
 |
| My mother in blue and her sister. They had the same birthday, two years apart |
The last ten years of my mother's life had a large gap where something was missing. Her brain swelled from the hemorrhage that took place in her artery. She almost died.
When she lived, to the surprise of her doctors, we took her home and began to program her brain with pictures and tales that eventually brought her back to a place where she knew our names and recognized her home. We had to tell her that her parents and many of her siblings were dead. It broke my heart when she cried. She lived those losses all over again because she didn't remember their passing.
Her memory of her childhood and even early marriage was vivid, so we talked about what she could tell me. Because I am curious and ask questions, I heard all of her stories. She told me about the dance parties in the community each Saturday night when she was young.
"They rolled up the rug and pushed the chairs back against the wall," Mother said. I could see the joy in her eyes when she remembered those happy times. She smiled as she talked. "Coy would walk me to the dance, but he wouldn't dance with me. It was fine with me. I had plenty of boys who asked and I danced until the party ended. Then, Coy walked me to my house. If we stayed on the front porch too long, Mama let us know."
Coy was my father so I knew, even though he didn't dance, they fell in love. He asked her to marry him when she was eighteen.
Mother knew the history of my father's family as well as she knew her own. I learned about my aunts and uncles on both sides. She told me about her little brother who died, and how her mother became very protective of her next son, my uncle Rudolph. The entire family adored Rudy and I understood why. When Mother was in Intensive Care and didn't know anyone, he came to the hospital and visited her often. I can still see him, tall and thin, a slight smile on his face, standing beside her bed feeding her like she was a baby. She didn't know his name, but she knew she loved him and he loved her. I could tell by the trusting way she looked up at him as he spooned soup into her mouth.
I was fortunate to come from a loving family and to know that being connected to others is healthy and important to living a long life. For several years Barry and I delivered Meals on Wheels to men and women living alone here in the mountains. Some of them could no longer cook for themselves and the hot meal they received every day gave them the nutrition they might not have received if left on their own. However, I think the most important part of delivering those meals was going inside, giving a hug, speaking with them, and letting them know someone cared. I think we had a few on our route who saw no one all day other than the people who delivered the meals.
Just that connection brightened their days. All the television in the world cannot replace human touch and a human voice. Even telephone calls cannot replace the visit of someone who cares.
I wrote a poem about one of the women we saw each month. She was ninety and still able to live alone. I often think about Pamela. You can find that poem here.
If you have the time and are able, delivering Meals on Wheels in your community is a very worthwhile program.
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