discovery – I'm too old for this …

discovery, family, life lessons, loss, memories, realization, relationships

belongingness

November 21, 2020 17 Comments

The need to belong…gain acceptance, approval, support, and connection…in other words LOVE…is one of life’s basic fundamental needs. While it may not be all we need, it’s a helluva motivator. It can lead us to change just about anything…our behaviors, beliefs, attitudes, relationships, address…even our hairstyles and handbags (Birkin? 2.25? Neverfull?)

After all, being like the other kids is important.

We held our breath and gazed up in anticipation while they entered the room. All of them were smiling, nodding or waving, until Mrs. Varnes caught their attention away from us and onto her welcome to the kindergarten class. They stood watching her, unaware of the whispers between the children seated cross-legged before them on the floor. Murmurs of, “Which one is your mom?” and “There she is!”, echoed softly behind our cupped hands.

I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t. My mother did not file in along with the others. She was at home with my younger sister and brother. Did I know that she wouldn’t be there? I can’t recall, but do remember asking myself, “Why did he have to come?” It was a mother’s open house, his very presence in the room was odd…

…and felt uncomfortable.

Still dressed in his heavy-duty work shirt, rumpled trousers, and thick, black belt, I knew my father no way resembled those of my classmates. Those dads wore white shirts and ties with sharply creased slacks and suit jackets. There was no way his bulky belt could ever fit through their refined belt loops.

On top of that, his thick, black wavy hair was badly in need of a comb, swooping down on one side of his forehead with a soft curl. He scratched at the telltale shadow on his face that all the other dads didn’t get until five o’clock. To have one at ten a.m. was totally inappropriate to me.

He shifted from leg to leg, looking down at the floor, occasionally glancing over at the teacher. He didn’t know what to do with himself. When he wasn’t clasping and wringing them, he crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits, acutely aware of the dirty fingernails and scars from years of handling vegetable crates and box cutters.

In the wee hours, five nights a week, my father’s business commute was to the produce market in the heart of Chicago. After procuring vegetables and fruit for restaurants all over town, he delivered them to waiting chefs and kitchen staff early in the morning, returning home to sleep while all the other fathers “officed”.

When he was with his friends on Saturday night he was a handsome guy, sharply dressed, boisterous and teasing, but that guy was nowhere to be found this morning. I watched his discomfort as he stood amongst this flock of prim, perfectly preened mothers. In another time or place, he’d be flirting with them, but here at school he was completely out of his element. Despite having three children, I believe he was inhabiting the role of “parent” for the first time in his life, and he had no idea how to do that.

Of course, he thought he did.

At home he ruled the roost, flaunting his prowess and authority by whipping that big, black belt around and yelling. Hearing the “whoosh” as he pulled the belt out of its loops would send us running for cover. Not only weren’t we to be heard, but I don’t think he wanted to see us either. It was the way he was raised and I think he thought that being a father by emulating his made him a member of that exclusive club…a desire that went much deeper than his five o’clock shadow.

As I write this, I can feel his pain. At the time, I could only feel my own.

Perhaps, just once, if he had searched the crowd of whispering, excited children to find my pleading eyes and meet them with love and a smile. Perhaps then, I could have been grateful…thankful that he showed up. Perhaps then, I wouldn’t have noticed his tousled hair or rumpled pants and happily claimed him as mine. But because he never claimed me that way, not that day or really ever, I was hurt…embarrassed, and sorry that he was there at all.

Now I see it through a different lens.

Many strange practices have manifested in the name of love. Wanting to belong sometimes causes us to focus on someone or something to the exclusion of everyone or everything else and we don’t even know it. What we do and why we do it is not always in our consciousness and plays out in many different ways. If we’re lucky, we become aware of our behavior, which allows us to forgive and change it. Remorse over some of my own has afforded me the opportunity to become a better person. I am grateful.

All these years later, I have to give my father credit for trying. Without enough time to get home and spruce up before coming to school, he chose to give it a shot…to be present. Although, he wasn’t really present, was he? Standing there perhaps, but never engaging with anyone or anything around him…feeling as if he didn’t belong there, wishing to be anywhere else. It’s how I remember him throughout much of my life. Given that, it’s not surprising that dementia set in a few years before he died. The challenge was over…presence would never again be expected of him.

Back in kindergarten…

I scanned the mothers and spotted one with dark hair and a pretty face. She was tall and slim, wearing a fitted black dress with a white collar. Her black hat had a large brim and white scarf around the crown. I remember thinking that she was e-l-e-g-a-n-t and would do nicely.

After my appropriation, I could answer the girl on my left, so I pointed and whispered, “She’s that one, in the black dress.” I lied. “Ooh, she’s pretty!” As I was smiling and nodding in agreement, I was unaware that the boy in front of us, Mark, had overheard me, his eyes following my finger. He turned around and yelled, “Hey, that’s MY mother, not yours!” Oh, God, additional mortification!

Caught in my attempted deception, I mumbled quickly. Something to the effect that, “I was only saying she was pretty, like my mother…sorry…”. Paying his mother a compliment seemed to get me off the hook. Even better, it drew attention away from the fact that my mother wasn’t there and that the father all the children were whispering about belonged to me.

Moving on…

Many years later, Mark and I shared a good laugh when I reminded him about “borrowing” his mom that morning. We spoke not long ago, each reporting the passing of our mothers, mine in March, his in May. Our fathers died long ago. I hope all of them have found peace.

I wish my childhood had been different. I think, in one way or another, most of us do. Had I understood the significance of what was happening and how things play out, it would have saved years of misunderstanding and grief. Does it ever work that way?

Forgiveness, whether you’re asking for or granting it to yourself and others, might be difficult, but it is how we heal and move on. It’s never too late to belong…gain acceptance, approval, support, and connection…whether across the table, the phone lines, or through a loving memory.

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discovery, family, loss, memories, realization, relationships, sweet story

full circle

October 23, 2020 12 Comments

When a parent dies, your brain may shut down for awhile to re-calibrate, or immediately conjure up all sorts of memories, both sweet and sour. The message could be profound and completely change your life, or be a charming, little vignette that softens your heart…perhaps a combination of both. No matter which emotions are triggered, welcome them, they have significance…they tell you something. Pieces fall into place, loose ends meet.

Wait for it.

Amongst the jewelry that came to me after my mother died this March, was an interesting, gold charm holder. She wore it dangling around her neck at the end of a very long chain. The charms were a varied collection of bells, crosses, and good luck talismans. Seeing it immediately took me back to those years of my adolescence and spoke “mom” to me.

I wanted to wear it, but not until I added the lucky charms from my own collection, making it “mine”. Removing her amulets, I began anew, combining and arranging each until the holder was full. I included all of her pieces, except for one. It just didn’t belong there anymore.

Each time I added the tiny, gold capital “E” to the mix, a voice distinctly said, “no”. I pay attention to those things, so I placed it in a box along with my parent’s wedding bands, knowing that the universe would tell me what to do with it eventually.

I sort of forgot about it. You may have noticed that the world demanded our attention elsewhere in the past several months and the universe has been busy sending more important messages to many of us.

“E” is for Eleanor

I’m sure you remember that during “lockdown” there wasn’t much need for anything except a change from day to night-time pajamas. Neither require a matching scarf, shoes, or the perfect pair of earrings. My jewelry and accessory drawers went untouched and unopened for months, as I’m sure did yours.

Once it was time to venture out of the house again, it became a journey of rediscovery Time to find each other and our place in the world, along with that forgotten clothing. Jewelry was hardly a priority, I hadn’t even worn a watch in months, so many weeks later, that exploration was my final destination.

One by one, I methodically opened each box inside of each drawer, approaching them with childlike expectation…Christmas morning on steroids. I had a wonderful time reacquainting myself with what had taken two lifetimes to acquire…both mine and my mother’s.

Reaching for the red velvet box, I had no recollection of what was inside. Cracking the lid, I spied the matching rings and the “E”. None of my nieces or nephews had been named after either of my parents, but didn’t one of the girls have “Eleanor” for a middle name? The universe interrupted my thought process with a boom. “‘E’ is also for Erik”. I had been thinking, “girl” so this obvious connection hadn’t dawned on me before. Of course, my youngest brother should have it. Duh…!

The youngest and the oldest

I was a freshman in college when Erik started kindergarten. At that time, he was doing small chores around the house to earn money…twenty-five cents for this…a nickel or dime for that. Not allowance, but payment for services rendered. A good system for kids.

He had saved “three whole dollars” to buy a birthday present for mom with his “own money”. Requesting I take him to a store that had “nice things that mom would like,” we went to Chas. A. Stevens at the local shopping mall. It was one of mom’s favorites and mine, too. Does anyone remember it?

He browsed through the finery with eyes big as saucers, blinking in disbelief at the price tags. I suggested we pool our resources and buy something together, but he wanted the gift to be from him alone. He also rejected the idea of somewhere less expensive, insisting upon a “store that mom liked”. I was tickled by his determination and enlisted the aid of a stalwart saleslady behind the jewelry counter.

She gazed down into his big, brown, hopeful eyes and was an immediate recruit. We tore through the trays of costume jewelry for something that would fall into his budget, but always came up short. Her final effort provided us with a sale basket of odds and ends.

Most of it was glitzy and just not mom’s style, but looking past the bling, I spotted a few gold-toned initial pins that had been marked down to three dollars. Bingo! Fingers crossed, I laid the remaining letters out onto the counter…no luck. “There isn’t an ‘E’ for Eleanor or a ‘P’ for Pappas”. He got up on tip-toe to eyeball the options before commenting, “But there’s an ‘M!’”

Professionally, my mother used her maiden name, but I was surprised by his suggestion. “Well, I guess an ‘M’ for Montesano would be fine”. Very annoyed with my rationale, he looked up at me and answered, “Nooooo, not Montesano…’M’ for MOM!” How could you argue with that?

A birthday surprise. .

A recent email from The Popcorn Factory asked if I wanted to repeat last years’ gift to my mother. Sugar and starch were always her preferred food groups and over the years, I’d sent her quite a variety in celebration of one thing or another. This year, I hadn’t forgotten her birthday, but I wasn’t thinking about it the same as in years past. She would have been 89 years old on November 2 and looked “darn good for an old broad” until the day she died.

In commemoration, I’m sending her birthday gift to Erik. Not the 6.5 gallon mix of caramel/cheese popcorn, but the little, gold “E” for his soon-to-be-collection of initials…because yes, he already has the “M”.

Would it surprise you to learn that while sorting out mom’s jewelry drawers after she passed, I turned up the “M” for MOM? I knew exactly what to do with it. Forty-nine years later, Erik had no memory of the event, but delighted at the story. I hope he treasures it as our mother certainly did.

I love happy endings, but I know that not all of them will be. Completion is very satisfying, nonetheless. Even if it takes fifty years…and with families, it just might! Don’t be afraid to tie those loose ends all together. When thoughts or things come around full circle, your life just might align.

Happy birthday, Mom, wherever you are!

discovery, inspiration, life lessons, realization, taking chances

fear of french and other imperfections

December 6, 2018 8 Comments

Parfait

Are you picturing the heavenly concoction made with creamy layers of luscious ice cream, stacked high in a fancy glass with a dollop of whipped cream and a cherry on top? Don’t. I am not referring to that yummy dessert, but the French word for perfect. Damn, was I still craving perfection? I thought I had kicked the habit along with sugar and wheat. Guess not, for there it is, tempting me again like a guilty pleasure.

I’ve always wanted to speak French and my daughter-in-law Parisienne generates additional aspiration. Taking classes in high school led me to try various taped programs over the years…stacks of cassettes, primers, and dictionaries leaving me with considerable understanding, but not enough to communicate with anyone. Which, after all, is the purpose of language, isn’t it?

Fluency requires a comprehensive program, yet each time I contemplated taking class, I was struck dumb. I couldn’t think, my brain scrambled then went blank, and every word that I ever learned in French disappeared entirely. Frightened to death, I was unable to open my mouth to say anything. So, why would an otherwise intelligent adult be seized by fear of a foreign language?

La Juge

Diving deep into my DNA and psyche, I remember that for me, being an intelligent woman was always conditional. I’m supposed to be perfect—both visually and cognitively. If looking good is paramount and I open my mouth and sound stupid, it makes me look bad. Therefore I can’t even try to do anything that may cast aspersions, so instead, I do what I’m good at. There’s no fear when you’re assured a favorable outcome.

If you excel at many things, you tend to lose perspective and forget that you’re limiting yourself. You may not even be aware that you’re afraid of a faux pas. How many of us are like that? I can’t be the only one halting life experiences dead in their tracks, refusing to try in avoidance of my inner critic. Because, let’s face it, very few of us actually get ridiculed by anyone other than ourselves anymore.

Once attaining a certain amount of confidence or enlightenment, we leave many of our naysayers behind. However, that inner judge received its’ training from the major influencers in our lives. Parents, siblings, spouses, teachers, or friends planted seeds in our brains that have flowered and propagated, becoming louder and stronger than any words ever spoken from their lips.

Some are beautiful, others horribly ugly, but they run our lives nonetheless. That is, until we have an awareness of them. Only then can we shut them up.

“I’ve made a vow to do things that scare me…take me out of my comfort zone…aren’t expected from me…to strip away pretense and embrace authenticity. Really, it’s time to live my life without restrictions and insecurities—self or otherwise imposed. I’m too old for that!”

That quote, from my very first blog post in April 2016, evokes my mission toward personal growth, taking chances no matter how much it scares me. And I have been, but was obviously unaware of my original default programming still running in the background. I need to close the window and update the operating system. C’est possible?

Nouveau et different

Reminding myself that the reason I wasn’t skilled at French was because I hadn’t learned it yet, seemed obvious, but not to my brain. The limbic system had shifted to high alert—particularly the amygdala, or emotion center, and the hippocampus, which forms new memories about past experiences.

What does that mean? I’m no scientist, but after reading explanations from a few of them, here’s my take on it.

We know that memories and emotions are stored in your body, which includes your brain. Any new experience will remind you of an old one; whether good, bad, or indifferent. That spark of recognition causes you to respond in a similar fashion to the last time you had it.

In order to push past an old emotion, you must create a new memory involving your current experience. When you notice an old negative response coming up, break the pattern by doing something different this time.

So as your stomach turns and the heat rises through your body until your ears burn and colors your face to match a Spanish onion, move forward anyway. Jump up and down, scream, laugh, call a friend…whatever it takes to thaw your pre-conditioned, frozen state of mind.

Then, take action toward your desire.

By doing so, you’ll change the synapse in your brain and whatever caused that fearful feeling will never be quite so painful again. The worst is over. You’ve proven to yourself that you are brave.

Many are so terrified of their feelings that they don’t get out of bed in the morning. Don’t let that be you. Focus on your goal, or how much worse you’d feel if you never even tried to achieve it, and forget about the terror. I’ve discovered that it gets easier each time. Really.

***Winged Victory***
**The Louvre Museum, Paris**

Courage

I finally submit my test to the Alliance, speak with the placement advisor, and register for classes that begin the following Tuesday. Stumbling through a few French words when requesting my course manuals made me flush (yep, Spanish-onion-red) and my heart pound, but I survived.

The first class and homework gave me vertigo, nausea, and a headache. My classmates also expressed anxiety, which, despite our distress, made me feel better somehow. By the third class, we could laugh at our errors and actually had petites victoires to rejoice in. I’m still overwhelmed, and expect to be for a long time to come, but have enrolled in the next semester and will continue on until I reach some level of proficiency.

Refusing to let my feelings of insecurity determine my actions, I’m focusing on my desire, approaching those irregular verb, gender, and conjugation obstacles with both confidence and doubt. Acknowledging my fear of imperfection and charging ahead in spite of it, seems to be an effective way to overcome it and heal.

La Fin Parfaite

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discovery, friendship, loss, realization, relationships, travel adventures

joy ride

September 10, 2018 26 Comments

“What brings you joy?”

The question made my brain functions stop. The clink of dishes and silverware, chairs rubbing the wooden floor as people settled into their seats, the hum of conversation…all immediately ceased, no longer audible to me as I sought the answer.

It was the second night of our meditation and writing retreat at Tassajara Zen Monastery. “Rona”, the monk leading our meditation practice, and I were seated at the end of one of the long wooden tables in the dining hall. I could see servers intermingling with guests as all were entering for the meal, but suddenly she and I were the only ones in the room, magnified for just this moment. I took a deep breath.

Joy?

It took me a minute to speak. “I really don’t know anymore. My husband was ill for many years and there was no joy in that. It changed him. Getting through it was all I could manage. He passed away in January and sometimes, I’m still discombobulated. Without Robert, I’m untethered, searching for the ground beneath my feet because the old ways just don’t work. I feel joy with my daughter and her family and that’s a good beginning.”

I had returned to California six weeks after Robert’s funeral, in time to participate in the monthly shamanic meditation held at the house. I was grieving his loss and completely drained by both the emotions and legalities of the situation. I welcomed the infusion of clarity, healing, and energy that these rituals provided me.

During the service, a noise jolted me from my reverie. I could see a pair of hands, Robert’s hands, holding a glowing, golden box. As he laid this at my feet, I heard his voice, “Laura, I’m returning this to you. I’m so sorry that I took it from you so many years ago…it’s your joy.” I looked closer to read the little note attached to it, ”DANCE!” is all it said.

Overwhelmed with such a profound feeling of love, I burst into tears and sobbed for quite some time. Silently…not wanting to disturb the other nineteen seekers in the darkened room, entangled in their own blankets and revelations brought to light by the melodious icaros and pounding drum.

My crying ended as I was blessed with another vision. Robert again, standing at attention—strong, straight, muscular, and healthy. He was dressed in uniform, reminiscent of the Battlestar Galactica science fiction-type novels he favored… and he had wings! An enormous, feathery pair like John Travolta’s in the movie, Michael. Go ahead, laugh…I did.

Surely a sacred sign…

Then I received the significance of this powerful image. He was standing watch over me, an angelic, commanding sentinel to care for and protect me, as he did before his illness robbed him of his joy, and therefore ours. I was aware that the forgiveness and love we had expressed for each other the last days of his life had healed any and all strife between us and would continue into eternity.

Three weeks after my Tassajara retreat, I’m on my way to another Zen Center. This one is in Sebastopol, where one of our housemates, Kelli, will be ordained as a Zen Buddhist monk. Carla, her best friend from college, flew in from San Diego that morning and together with my daughter, Danielle and her wife, Anne, we are driving up to witness the ceremony and celebrate her commitment.

Driving through Napa, the perfectly coiffed grapevines line the road on either side, vivid green against the brilliant, blue afternoon sky. The top is down on my new Mustang convertible, warm air and bright sunshine washing over us as we sing along with the radio at the top of our lungs. Danielle has discovered the “70’s Road Trip” mix on Spotify, providing the perfect soundtrack for this journey. I turn the volume way up so we can hear it above the honking horns and whistling wind.

It’s Friday, at the start of the Labor Day weekend and a drive that should take us an hour, turns out to be two, but as we laugh and warble along with the Rolling Stones, Eagles, and Elton John, it’s clear that it doesn’t matter how long it takes. We allowed extra time for the holiday traffic and except for Kelli, everything we need is right there in the car—hard-boiled eggs, avocados, bananas, water, a full tank of gas, and the love between us that we are on our way to share with her.

Hearing the distinctive guitar intro and raspy voice of Rod Stewart singing Maggie May, a goofy grin spreads over my face and I ease into my seat, acutely aware of this time we have together. It’s one of those perfect moments…a snapshot to add to the album of special times that have enriched my life.

Pure joy.

Coupled with these feelings, Rod’s serenade transports me back to another road, this one lined with tall cornfields. I’m driving an old, white, sputtering Corvair with the radio blasting the newly released Maggie May. The dj’s were playing it constantly, so we know all the words.

Sandy and I attended freshman year in Chicago and savored these road trips to stay with friends in colleges all over the state. When she couldn’t get away, I would hit the trail alone, folding and unfolding my Rand McNally map as required, to chart the path through the endless farmlands of Illinois.

Living at home and working part-time was the only way I could pay for tuition, books, and supplies. It was not easy, but that is another story. I mention it only to illustrate the motivation, relief, and anticipation I experienced each time I packed up my car for one of these weekends away. Escape from the overwhelming responsibilities of homework, housework, siblings, parents, and my job provided me with freedom and hope—a glimpse of a future that I could determine without anyone else’s directives or demands, filled with enthusiasm, love and yes, joy.

I veered off the road of radical personal discovery, as many of us do. As a willing and sometimes eager passenger, detours and highways led me to others’ more conservative expectations and destinations—also, another story, but one that has come to an end. Now I’m ready to take the wheel with all the passion and excitement of that eighteen year-old girl.

My hair is much shorter now and shot with gray, my eyes surrounded by a few more laugh lines and a visor on my head to keep the sun out of them, but I’m sure the expression in them is just the same as that first Maggie May moment in time…wide-eyed wonder at the possibilities before me.

Without Robert in the driver’s seat and me riding shotgun beside him, it is not the future we planned. I’m driving now–with a GPS and custom playlist, no particular time line, and a long list of places to go and people to see. Could be that place is only as far as the hammock swinging beneath the lofty redwoods out front, a French class in Berkeley, Iyengar yoga in the Piedmont, or exploring the countless curiosities contained in Golden Gate Park.

When I do gas up the Mustang or board a plane this time, I’ll probably be sleeping in a Hampton Inn, Four Seasons, or the perfectly appointed guest room of a dear friend or client, but while on this quest, I’m not ruling out a spot on the floor or cramped backseat altogether.

Having the security, protection, generosity, and affection of Anne, Danielle, and Robert, in both this world and the mystical one, allows my spirit of adventure to take flight. Freedom and hope—a future that I alone determine, filled with enthusiasm, love…and as that winged sentinel reminded me, plenty of dancing.

Pure joy.

“Hey, Rona, ask me that question once again.”

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discovery, inspiration, life lessons, realization, relationships, taking chances

let go and move on

November 7, 2017 2 Comments

5 Lessons I Learned During My Life’s Most Difficult Situation

I had to let go of my husband. Not because he was cheating or lying, but because his illness and attitude changed him into a totally different guy, one who was unbearable to live with if I wanted to maintain my health and sanity. The two years of our separation have taken us through hell, but we are finally on good terms. As his health is worsening, it’s hard not to be pulled back into old patterns, but I know I must keep letting go and moving forward.

That’s difficult for me to report here, because once this posts, Robert will be reading it. I tried a million different ways to sugarcoat my words in fear of his disapproval or retaliation, but I got stuck every time. The words wouldn’t flow until they were honest and direct. I don’t want to jeopardize the recent truce we have negotiated, but I need to take the chance and let that go. If I’m not fully committed to telling my truth, how can I inspire you to tell yours?

Moving On

Well over a year after our separation, I left Chicago to get a new perspective on my life, driving cross-country to stay with my daughter and her wife in California. After a terrific summer with them, the voice of the Universe told me to go to Chicago to “clear things” and to stay “until it’s done.” I took that as a cue to return and empty the apartment in preparation for sale, but as it turned out, I was able to clear and let go of much more than my possessions. One of which was the animosity between Robert and I. Could be why the whole process took far longer than anticipated!

After three months of packing and purging in Chicago, I was headed back to meet the truck with my furniture and boxes in California. A week before my scheduled flight, Robert was informed that his leukemia had reached a level where chemotherapy was required and he was admitted to the hospital. My mind raced back to all those previous hospital stays — what had transpired during, between, and after them. I was distressed for him, but couldn’t help seeing it as a roadblock in my path to departure.

Make the Leap

Have you heard the story of the frog in boiling water? If you place her into a pot that’s already boiling, the frog will jump right out, immediately aware of the danger.

However, if you place her into a pot of cool water and then set it on the stove to boil, she won’t notice the water slowly getting warmer, it’ll feel natural and comfortable while the life is being cooked right out of her.

I had been living in a very warm pot. After Robert’s near death a few years ago, he returned home changed, “my guy” was gone. In his place was an angry man in a wheelchair that kinda looked like him. If he communicated with me at all, it was with harsh words. Nothing I said or did made it any better or led him to seek help. He was miserable and depressed and eventually, so was I. I knew I had to jump out of this, but my guilt immobilized me. How do you leave a man in a wheelchair?

I tried every form of counseling imaginable — traditional or otherwise. Each one helped me get clear on what needed to happen, but it was a tarot card reading that forced me to take the leap. Sometimes inspiration finds you in the most mysterious way.

Althea asked, “What is Laura’s present situation?” As the card was revealed, I could feel a blade pierce my heart and I burst into tears. I was that brunette in the red dress; bound, gagged, and blindfolded; living in a cage of swords. When faced with the image, I could no longer ignore what was happening to me.

Maybe you’re in a situation that’s “heating up” right now. Think about it — at home? at work? Conditions are less than ideal and instead of dealing with the problem now, you’re content to let it boil inside of you. What are you tolerating just to keep the peace or deny your feelings of guilt? Are you clinging to something you should let go of?

I could’ve, maybe even should’ve, stayed with Robert while the pot continued to boil, but chose to save myself and jump out. Taking the leap brought me closer to my true self and it could do the same for you.

Live Your Beliefs No Matter What

Living contrary to your beliefs can make you sick, whether you’re aware of it or not. If it seems right but isn’t right for you, then it’s wrong.

When a loved one affects you negatively, you’re in a difficult situation and certain to have conflicting feelings. After all, you love them. Doesn’t that mean you’d do anything for them? If they’re ill or going through a difficult time, don’t you put your needs on hold to guide them through it? You don’t want to make them feel worse than they already are, do you? You tend to remain silent, feeling guilty for even thinking about yourself and not putting them first. But do you want to wind up in the same condition as they are?

The internal conflict existed inside me for years. My life force was being drained, my health deteriorating, and my stress levels were to the moon. Robert’s bad attitude toward me and everything else caused me to examine the relationship and ultimately realize that even before he became ill, our mutual experiences were limited to those he was comfortable with. They were such great experiences, and I loved every moment, but my desire for a little more spice and adventure was never fulfilled. He wasn’t up for it then and now they could never happen.

I could surrender solely to his needs and limitations or make the difficult decision to live my truth. I chose the latter.

You can’t live a full and happy life with your truth silenced. If there’s a situation in your life where you’re silencing your true self to make someone else or society happy, it’s time for a deep internal dialogue with yourself to determine your next move.

Don’t Fall Prey to The Gratitude Trap

Being grateful for having something in your life doesn’t mean you can’t desire something else. Have you made gratitude a limiting belief? You can be grateful for your home, but still want a new one; grateful for your successful career, but still want a different profession; or grateful that your partner didn’t die, but still want to be more than a caregiver.

Robert and I had good years, we had bad ones. I wanted more good years but didn’t see how we could have them together. My speaking up included a great deal of yelling and crying, but has managed to “clear” much of our anger and resentment toward each other. Our relationship has shifted to one where we are separate, yet connected. I am grateful that I had the courage to act in my best interest. It will benefit both of us.

Are you happy or settling? If you’re not sure of the answer, it’s probably the latter. You have one life to live and it is too short to use gratitude as a guise to silence your ambition or wanting for more. Don’t settle for less — express thanks for what you have — then go get what you want!

You Know You Have To Go.

As difficult as it was to leave Robert lying in a hospital bed last month, I felt I had to get on my flight the next morning. I just knew that he would go through hell and then he would miraculously pull out of it. I had witnessed it oh-so-many times before and couldn’t watch it happen again. I was certain that it would kill my spirit and break my heart. So I left.

I checked in with him everyday, but one morning, a call came from the doctor. Robert had a bad reaction to chemo and ended up in ICU. I fought the urge to jump on a plane — to be there as I always had been before — for him. But at the same time knowing I had to stay right where I was — for me. I imagined nails hammered through my feet to ground me to the place I was standing and waited for the outcome.

Trust Your Voice — Always

Which, of course, was fine. As I knew it would be. I had listened to “the voice”. You know the one because you hear it too. It simultaneously tells you the things you want to hear and the truths you try to hide from. I have heard it many times before and have learned to trust it.

It is always difficult to let go of guilt, fears, resentment, anger, need for approval…and all of that conditioning we think we should do and feel, but it gets easier each time.

I will keep listening for direction and doing the things that are best for me and hope you will too. When you are coming from a place of truth, it’s also what’s best for everyone else…even if it doesn’t seem so at the time.

Get Your Free Guide — Letting Go — The Manifesto

Do you feel like you’re just going through the motions?

Feeling stuck without knowing why or the next step?

Join me and others on our path to discovering our true selves.

discovery, inspiration, realization

see me, feel me

August 31, 2017 16 Comments

While sorting out my bedroom closet, I had to lie down right there on the floor amongst heaps of shoes, bags, belts, and clothing to regain my equilibrium. My brain hurt calculating the fate of each item. That, in addition to the energy from them, reverberated off the walls and completely knocked me out.

In the past few months, I have physically handled absolutely everything it took my entire life—and Robert’s—to acquire. I never realized there was so much. I worked with Robert’s movers to get his things to his new apartment, my movers to get my things into storage, and will have another round of movers pack and ship furniture and boxes going to the girls’ house in California.

For weeks I had folding tables set up in the living room for a house sale. I kissed goodbye many of my favorite pieces, not quite believing that I was really selling them. The “good stuff” that I didn’t keep or sell has been packed up to go to a resale store. Most of my closet went to friends, consignment, auction, or donation, but there’s still a vast amount to be organized. The quantity of everything along with the varied dispersal of it, has me exhausted.

It’s not like I’ve never moved before, not like I’ve never split up a household before. Sure, the last time was twenty years ago, but it can’t just be because I’ve never been this old before.

Why is it so different this time?

When Robert and I moved into this apartment, we were moving out of two homes. Over 7000 square feet of belongings between us needed to be reduced into 2000 square feet of space. Once I completed furniture layouts, what we needed became obvious, but what we wanted was not. So we made a deal. If he hated anything of mine or I hated anything of his, we would discard it–no hard feelings–and replace it with a new item that we both liked.

The pieces that didn’t make the cut quietly left. Some went to furniture heaven, while others lived on at my office. Italian contemporary kitchen chairs gained new life at a small conference table in the sources library and tribal tapestries added character to the walls in my reception area.

Formal evening with Robert November 1995

Choices were easy—clear–and I really didn’t miss anything that had gone away, especially not the furniture and art that I saw at work everyday.

As for the clothing, collectibles, and housewares–we brought it all. They were essential to living the way we were and wanted to continue. Stylish, elegant, sophisticated…

The puzzle pieces fit.

Fit the floor plan, fit the location, fit the purpose, fit the lifestyle, and fit who I was–whom I’d been my whole adult life. I knew what it looked like to be her. I knew what she needed to complete that picture. This girl, the one lying on the floor of her closet, hasn’t really existed before–and that’s what’s making my brain freeze.

I don’t know what she looks like yet or what her needs are. I can’t conjure her up in my minds eye to see what her future requires. I don’t even know what the pieces are–let alone where they fit. What does she do everyday, where does she go? What does she like to wear, how does she entertain? Where does she live? It all remains to be seen.

For a visual person with a highly developed sense of knowing what’s going to look just right, this is unnerving.

I’m going to have to feel my way through.

I’ve always enjoyed the discovery of beautiful new things, but I realize now that I don’t have to own all of them. I am acutely aware that as activities diminish and possessions are dispersed, my senses are heightened and exposed. Sometimes I’m sad, other times overjoyed, but I’m always certain that what I’m doing is the right thing to do right now. Will I find myself somewhere underneath the piles of belongings? Have I been playing hide and seek with my feelings and emotions my whole life? Maybe.

The first floor is just about empty.

Danielle came in to help as did quite a few friends. They packed, or purchased, or provided moral support–all of which I am so grateful for. The power of a friendly face or voice can move mountains, or in this case–a helluva lot of stuff!

Traces of packing paper and a few boxes waiting to go into storage are all that remain downstairs. Both the painter and floor finisher have been scheduled to touch up the imperfections visible now that furniture and art have been removed. The pieces shipping to California have been temporarily relocated to carpeted areas upstairs and will leave in a couple weeks. It feels weird. Not like home at all.

Which, I guess, is the point. In a few weeks my home will be neutralized–ready to belong to somebody else. The few items that remain in the bedroom and bathroom so I can work, sleep, and get dressed will have little impact on the personality of the apartment. What made it mine…ours…is gone with the wind–and the moving vans.

Despite all the mechanics, I welcome the new insights and intense feelings that emerge. Even the chaos is illuminating. I hope it shines brightly upon what’s next.

######

discovery, inspiration, realization

california dreamin’

July 31, 2017 4 Comments

I’m writing this from my desk in Chicago.

Yes, Chicago.

My apartment looks like a bomb went off; strewn with boxes, bubble wrap, packing paper and all of my worldly possessions. As I pull out everything to take stock, I’m convinced I opened the portal to Narnia…surely all those things couldn’t fit into these cabinets and drawers? Like a clown car at the circus, the contents belie the size of the container.

I know…the last you read; the girls and fireworks were welcoming me to Oakland after my long drive. The week getting there and the months in California that followed now feel like a dream.

Did it really happen?

Living with the girls is fun. There are four of us in the house; Danielle, Anne, and one of D’s longtime friends, Erica. Both she and I are in transition. I joke about D & A running a “home for wayward girls”, as I express my gratitude for them doing so. Everybody looks out for, respects, and really loves one another.

The house is large and the property expansive, providing areas for solitude or community, depending on your desire. The perfect site for Danielle to work with her clients for plant medicine and sound healing or for the family to just be.

Taking care of the diverse surroundings is a constant endeavor. The previous owner had neglected quite a bit, so my particular area of expertise has come in handy. I’m happy to help with design, specification, and management for ongoing construction projects or to just wash the dishes…whatever is necessary!

View from the backyard in the Oakland Hills 2017

Stranger in a strange land

In addition to the work at the house, I want to experience everything the Bay Area has to offer. Finding clarity of purpose and my place in the world is my quest, after all, so I jump right in. Why wait? How else will I discover if my place is here.

I pick up the local papers and scour them for events and places where I might find my people. To go anywhere requires a 15-30 minute drive and extra time to find a parking place– quite different than strolling down Michigan Avenue to get just about anything you want. Walking fifteen minutes from this house is pretty, but gets me nowhere.

I immediately sign up for Iyengar yoga classes five days a week. There’s a swing club that’s open on Tuesdays for instruction and dancing, an art class in Sacred Objects on Sunday afternoon, and a performance of Guys and Dolls at the Oakland Symphony the following Friday night. I join the crowd for traditional dancing at the Greek Festival on Saturday and next week take the ferry from Jack London Square to downtown San Francisco, visit the De Young Museum to see the Summer of Love Exhibit, and even check out the performance of an amateur choral group to see if I want to sing along as I had in Chicago (they were terrible—so no!).

The utter simplicity of existence is a relief. Not like a vacation or the real world, I don’t know what to call it. I’m having a good time, but keep asking myself, “What am I going to do with my life?” I need to figure it out, but know it will not become clear until I reconcile my past and present.

Then I got the email.

“I’ll be in Chicago for a wedding July 8^th. Why don’t I come in early to help you pack up your apartment?” It was my college girlfriend, Lennie.

Go to Chicago? Geez, I just got here. How can I even think of going back? I’m disturbed by the thought of it. Can’t sleep, can’t think. I know it has to be done, the apartment has been on the market for months, I’d already started to purge, but I wasn’t been able to finish. I am faced with the reason I left Chicago when I did…

analysis paralysis.

The more I thought about clearing out my apartment, the less I could do. I felt as if my head would explode trying to figure out what to do with what. The plan was to sell my apartment, go to California with the minimal amount of things I would need to live with the girls, put what I absolutely couldn’t part with into storage in Chicago, and sell or donate the rest. Then I would go back and forth as business required.

Simple in theory, but in execution… not so much.

I had to do something to change the dynamic, which is when I got into my car and left. The message was clear—it was the only thing to do. It was also absolutely the right thing to do, but I didn’t know it at the time.

Driving to and being in California was slowly diffusing my angst and bewilderment, but I wasn’t yet firm in my resolve. After Lennie’s suggestion, I was going nuts all over again. “I don’t want to go back, but it must be done and it’s good to have someone to help navigate. How long do I stay? We can’t possibly get the job done in a week. Do I just leave now and get a head start?”

The self-talk was crazy making, so I had a pow-wow with Danielle instead. Together we uncovered the source of my trepidation. It revolved around going back to Chicago and getting stuck by putting myself back into it. My stuff, Robert, the apartment, everything. The stuff represents a lifetime of working, planning, saving, wishing, and enjoying. Hard to believe it no longer resonates with who I am or who I want to be.

“let it go, let it go, let it go!”

The words are familiar and keep ringing in my ears. I hate the thought of giving up most of my possessions just to get out, although I know that this is exactly what I must do. Things have no value if they’re killing your spirit. Nonetheless, it’s daunting to step out into the abyss alone and unencumbered.

Danielle at the De Young Museum June 2017

Which is why I’m grateful for the soft landing offered me in California.

The universe (and Danielle) continues to tell me to trust that whatever I give up now will come back to me in a different way, authentic to the person I’m becoming and not the one I was. I already know that there’s no space for the new to come in if it is full of the old. Okay, okay…I’m going back to clear the apartment, but when and for how long?

I’m not driving this time, so I put an airline reservation on hold…

and prepare to listen for answers.

The little voice (I often refer to it as the universe, but it’s also our inner knowing) speaks to all of us. Most don’t hear it, and if we do, tend to ignore it. Transcendental meditation coupled with the plant medicine work has made mine impossible to ignore, she’s relentless. I don’t always like the answers to my questions or find it easy to follow her sage advice, but I have learned to do it anyway. No matter the degree of ease or difficulty, it’s always the right thing to do.

This time, I am told to wait awhile before I go back, so that I can become more grounded in California. To leave now would only return me to the maelstrom of indecision that I left. Waiting until Lennie arrived a few weeks from now, it would be easy to make the decisions necessary for efficient disposition of my belongings.

Unable to predict just how long this process would take (the voice only said, “until it’s done”), I booked a one-way ticket, and here I am–sorting, wrapping, packing, organizing and moving stuff from one place to another.

Easy, but not so simple

Without my own wheels, I’ve loaded the Lyft app to my phone to use when it’s too far to walk. Thanks to Judy and Carrie, I have cars to borrow for longer distances. It’s been nice to see friends, family, and clients while in Chicago, but everything the same feels different somehow.

As for what goes into storage here, out to the girls in California, to Robert in his new apartment, or for sale and donation, the decisions have been easy, the effort…not so much.

I’m exhausted, yet happy and determined. Despite all the moving parts, I…but that’s another story.

#####

discovery, inspiration, travel

road warrior

May 28, 2017 17 Comments

Driving alone for six days is entirely different than flying there for six hours. Of course you end up in the same place, but on the road you have time to acclimate, to ease your way into a sense of place, to see the sites, and interact with a variety of new people. The best part? You get re-acquainted with yourself. Not at all like being air dropped into a new location.

I had decided to drive eight to ten hours per day–not pushing it if I was tired and not driving in the dark. I also wanted to stay off deserted roads, (Did you see Nocturnal Animals? Chilling.) but I didn’t follow all of those rules. It proved to be both impossible and fortuitous. What I would have missed!

It is not my intention to provide you with a travelogue. There are far better sources you can turn to for that. However, each mile or location formed distinct impressions…evoked particular emotions. I have to tell you where I’ve been in order to tell you how I feel about it. Please be patient,

I promise I’ll get to the point.

Driving through Wisconsin and Minnesota, I was reminded of previous trips and I laughed to myself at some good memories. It all seemed quite normal, until I crossed over into South Dakota. I had never been there before and I was jazzed. Crossing the state line brought the promise of something new.

When the Badlands emerged up ahead, I was sure that Scottie had beamed me up to another planet. The otherworldly terrain, desolate and barren, was very different than the green, rolling plains surrounding them. I explored a few of the craters, then pressed on.

“Hello, boys!” The greeting left my lips as I rounded the curve. There they were, up in front of me popping out of the mountaintop before disappearing out of sight as I took the next turn. George, Abe, Teddy, and Tom. Mount Rushmore! I visited Sitting Bull, as well, but it was the Black Hills themselves that took my breath away.

The Yellowstone Road

The next morning, the GPS kept telling me it was unable to determine a route to Yellowstone Park citing “road conditions.” Thank God and Linda for my Rand McNally Road Atlas because even the Wyoming Travel Information Bureau couldn’t help. I spotted the new facility as I crossed the state line and head over to get their take on what lie ahead. Ha! Hours of operation: 9-5, Monday –Friday. It was Sunday. What about weekend or evening travelers? The absurdity made me think I was still in Illinois.

So I took it one town at a time, heading west toward Cody, Wyoming. The name of the town just jumped out of the map at me and I knew I had to get there. It was more intuition than knowing, although it happened to be the town nearest the east entrance to Yellowstone Park. Perfect.

“Oh my God!” I screamed and had to stop the car. I obviously wasn’t the first person to do so, as a turnoff was right there waiting for me. I got out of the car, as well. I had to feel what I was seeing and couldn’t do that from inside. This was my first introduction to BIG SKY.

It went on forever– “from sea to shining sea”. So broad that I could perceive the curve of the earth. So vast that I felt tiny and insignificant. So exposed that I was frightened. So moved that it made me cry.

The enormity of it all.

It may not sound like a big deal, but as I continued west following my map or the road signs advertising, “The most scenic route to Yellowstone” I lost count on how many times I experienced an “OMG!” moment. Each one evoked the same action and response. Lucky me to have seen and felt all of this.

Checking in for the night in Cody, I asked how long it would take to get to Yellowstone in the morning. The girl behind the desk sheepishly handed a piece of paper to me. Her most apologetic voice told me, “Usually about forty minutes, but the east gate is closed until next week. This map will guide you to the north entrance. It’s about four or five hours from here.”

Now I knew why the GPS couldn’t get me to Yellowstone Park. Disappointing? Yes. Tragic? No. In fact the opposite. Had I known that the east gate was closed, I would have taken a different road further north, missing “the scenic route” (and all the great self-analysis that came with it) completely. I had all night to contemplate what the additional hours to the north gate would reveal.

The drive up through Montana was gorgeous, so by the time I arrived, I was ready to be really impressed. Everyone from Yogi Bear to Ken Burns had made Yellowstone Park sound like heaven on earth. I drove down the road next to a buffalo, waited to see Old Faithful erupt, (right on time, btw) and mentally checked these items off my bucket list as I realized that while magnificent, none of those things had knocked my socks off as much as I thought they would.

None of them.

Not the Badlands, not Mount Rushmore, nor Yellowstone Park could remotely compare with the beauty and wonder of the terrain that I covered (on the road and in my head) to get to them. It was what lie in-between that made this trip awesome.

The journey surpassed the destination.

It made me wish I had done this sooner…by about fifty years. I wonder how different my life would have been if this spirit of hope, discovery, and adventure had been instilled in me at an early age? Traveling cross-country to see what our ancestors had discovered and the perils they overcame couldn’t help but inspire. It profoundly impacted me now. I can only imagine what it could do to a ten-year old.

For those of you who did do it when you were ten, tell me. Did it infuse you with pioneer spirit or just annoy you because your brother was pulling your hair from the backseat and your father would stop only to sleep or refuel and not even consider pulling off the road for an “OMG!” moment?

The climate inside your immediate environment–be it your vehicle, your home, or your head–eclipses whatever is happening outside of it. Alone, in my spiffy little sports car, was the perfect incubator for discovery, inspiration, and analysis.

Imagine…

and I still have days to go before reaching California.

to be continued

discovery, taking chances, travel adventures

test drive

April 19, 2017 20 Comments

My dad was letting me borrow the car so my girlfriends and I could go to a concert, a very big deal when you’re in high school. I had never driven downtown before and was beyond anxious with thoughts of pending disaster on the Dan Ryan Expressway and lower Wacker Drive.

Passing up exits, getting lost, or any mishap that would result in missing the concert altogether would incur wrath and disapproval from my friends. That just wouldn’t do. I wanted to be the hero and save the day.

I thought that if I could practice and get the lay of the land somehow, it would build up my confidence and abilities. GPS systems were only for aircraft and submarines in those days, but what I did have access to was a boyfriend with a car. I convinced him to navigate, letting me drive his car to and from the concert venue on the evening before the event.

An unusual date, perhaps, but off we went. Just to be sure I had the route down cold–knowing when to change lanes so I wouldn’t miss a turn and noting landmarks along the way–we drove it twice. The next night I aced it, of course, because

I already knew where I was going.

I’ll be on the road again at the end of April. The 28^th is D-day and I’m taking a brand new route to a familiar destination, inhabiting it as never before because eventually (drum roll here) I am moving to California.

Wow.

I’ve said it aloud, but never seen it in print before and this makes it very real, if not immediate. My apartment hasn’t sold yet, so there’s a lot to be done in Chicago before my final exodus, but I can’t pack boxes until it’s under contract and the anticipation is, to say the least, annoying.

Having paid attention to the nagging message from the Universe to “let it all go, Laura” I’ve been systematically and subconsciously doing just that. Now I’m sitting in the void waiting for…exactly what, I do not know.

The future was all planned.

I was on the road with a clear destination ahead. Familiar landmarks and signposts stretched out before me. I was happily married, had a successful business, and a great daughter, Danielle, who lives in California. Robert and I were going to move out there after retirement, so we bought a little house in Palm Desert for vacations in the meantime. She came down to meet us there for holidays.

Life was good, and then it wasn’t.

I had to let go of life the way I thought it was going to be. It was sad, it was painful, it was frightening, but it was necessary to my survival. However, once past the initial stages of grief, it became extraordinarily liberating and joyful. The way I’m doing things has changed as much as what I’m actually doing and everything is up for consideration or review.

Our house in the desert sold in February. I went to clear out personal items, art, and a few pieces of furniture, rented a truck and drove them up to Danielle’s home in Oakland. Road trip! Yes, that’s me in the U-Haul—a sight to behold and one I never thought I’d experience.

I not only made it, I had fun doing it!

The truck was surprisingly easy to manage and the daylong drive gave me plenty of time to be alone and think. Sometimes it’s very clear where you’re headed. Other times you won’t have an address to program into the GPS and you just have to drive around until you find a good place to stop for a while. Which is different than driving around for a while looking for a place to stop.

Life has an impermanence that I’ve only recently been able to appreciate. I don’t want to stop discovering new things everyday—about the world, humanity, or myself. Not even if it means that occasionally, comfort and familiarity need to be left behind in order to do so.

Ultimately, I’m not really sure what’s next. Chicago? California? Parts unknown? For right now, I’m gratefully accepting the invitation from Danielle and Anne to inhabit the suite at the end of the hall in their wonderful home on the hill. It is a safe haven and full of love.

When the condo finally does sell, it will take a concerted effort to empty it, which means an extended presence in Chicago to get that accomplished. Until then and even afterward, I will regularly fly back and forth to Chicago to see friends, family, and work with clients.

So I’m off!

With a trunk the size of a glove compartment and no backseat, I can’t take much along with me, but I’m packing up my little convertible with the essentials. I have the power adapter in order to plug-in my devices and I’m strapping in the cooler filled with organic food and water to ride shotgun. Files and business documents can fit into the trunk and other than an overnight bag, a few cartons of clothes are shipping UPS.

Headed west through the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, and beyond, I haven’t planned the other stops. I’m open to discovery–along the highway, in my head, and in my heart; exploring all the possibilities.

Unlike my first drive downtown, I can’t try out life the night before. I have to experience it as I go along–speed bumps, crazy drivers, off ramps, missed turns, and all. Nothing guarantees that I’ll arrive at my destination on time or in one piece. If I don’t like it once I get there, I can choose another place to go. The important thing is: not to settle for anything less than happiness.

Life is a test drive.

You might be perfectly happy and then something shifts, so that life as you know it no longer exists. Time to get on the road again–recalibrate, change lanes, and take a different route.

I can do that.

I am the hero—and the heroine.

I am saving myself.

discovery

somewhere in time

February 23, 2017 21 Comments

The taffeta bag was tucked into the back corner of my dresser drawer. “What’s in here?” I asked myself as I removed the contents and carefully unfolded the tissue paper. The moment I ran my fingers over the sheer navy blue silk and refined embroidery, I was whisked back to the bright, sunny day when I bought it.

Sitting there on the floor, I remembered a glorious vacation with my husband at Lake Como. I could hear the laughter and feel the happiness from all those years ago; taste the fresh Gorgonzola cheese from that little shop in town. I even dared to try on the delicate lingerie to discover that not only did it still fit, but I also looked pretty much the same in it as I had before.

Robert and I at Villa d’Este, Lake Como 1997

who is that woman?

My reflection in the mirror startled me. I hadn’t thought of myself “in that way” for so very long, and unfortunately, nor had anyone else. I was happy to see that I looked good, but sad to think of what had been lost. Life is so different now compared to when I had tucked that bag so affectionately into the drawer.

Robert and I have been separated for over a year and my apartment is for sale. It’s why I’m cleaning out the drawers, the closets, the cabinets…everything. I want to be prepared to pack quickly once the unit does sell, so purging is required. I was ready for the work, but not for how it was going to make me feel. Every nook and cranny houses parts of my life frozen in time, a virtual time capsule, taking me for a walk down Memory Lane with each item.

which is not all bad…

The next few drawers just made me laugh. I had three of them—yes, three– stuffed to capacity with pantyhose and tights. I burrowed through black, brown, navy, white, tan, green, purple, red, yellow, burgundy, and every conceivable shade of nude known to man. After that, I organized sheer, opaque, fishnet, textured…the list goes on.

Uncovering a bag of greenish tones took me right back to Fogal and how delighted I was to discover stockings that matched my olive shoes. Each color and texture in the drawers reminded me of the painstaking care I took to search out the perfect tone or texture to make sure every ensemble was just right.

did I really just say that?

It sounds so trivial to me now. With the onset of Robert’s illness, priorities changed and so did the number of meetings and events I attended. The suit that looks so good with those olive shoes and stockings hasn’t been worn in quite awhile.

Being well dressed has always been second nature and important to me, so I still want to look good. However, I can’t imagine ever going back to wearing suits and dresses all the time. I loved it, but I’m just not there anymore.

So when the little voice said, “throw out the purple tights, Laura!” I did just that. In fact, I was feeling so liberated, that I threw caution (and a whole lot more) to the wind and I’m down to just one drawer of stockings. After all, one must retain one’s standards.

is it just me?

All of this emotion was so disconcerting to me, that I couldn’t help sharing the experience with girlfriends. I was relieved to find out that I’m not the only one that has encountered these enlightening realizations. “It’s like reliving your whole life, “ said a friend who had just moved into her new place after being widowed.

Another friend is also discovering that she just isn’t who she used to be and so much of what she’s been packing up and carting around from place to place isn’t important to her anymore. We laugh and shake our heads in disbelief, for we were so immersed in that other way to be.

I have become profoundly aware of the “life of objects” and how we are impacted by them. Every item automatically triggers a memory or emotion to either be treasured and saved, or tossed into the trash along with it. Regardless of whether I celebrate or forgive each recollection, I bless it and move forward. The physical act of examining my “stuff” is helping me accomplish this.

I know that in order to fully embrace my future, I need to honor my past. I don’t want to bring the emotional baggage to my new home anymore than I want any of those extra stockings.

The blue lace lingerie, however, is coming with me. Because…well, you never know…

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