Saying goodbye to winter

This winter has been unsettling for me. Each year, my attempts to brave the snow and ice that come with the holiday season are met with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around me and a steaming mug of tea. While my hot flashes have settled down for the foreseeable future, the new need for warmth was even more significant this year with the bitter sting of personal loss: Loss of friends, loss of family, and the absence of things I thought I’d have or hold by now. However, as the days are short and the darkness prevails this time of year, I find myself feeling lost in the chill of winter – as though something on my journey through midlife had been left unfinished. I had successfully cleared the shelves of my belongings, shared my stories with loved ones, and unburdened my soul of emotional anchors to my past. I had focused on what was within my control, but I remained restless and unsettled, and I could not understand why.

Thus far, my journey into midlife had been about loving and letting go of so many things: the hope and expectations I once held for myself and others, the role of sacrificing mother and wife, as well as listening to my heart in the perspective of age and beauty. Over the years, I have done the work necessary to move on. It was only until the loss experienced by a close friend that it came to me. In letting go of what I was leaving behind, I had forgotten to say goodbye.

Living a mindful life involves acknowledging each step on one’s journey. The value of each moment can only truly be savored by the attentive traveler. Unfortunately, so many of us focus on the road ahead that we forget to turn around, survey the distance we had covered, and embrace the experience that brought us to where we are today. I had lived a life with meaning. Letting go of my past, I still needed to say goodbye to my former self, and all that I had accomplished.

So, as I do most every New Year’s Eve, I took quiet account of my prior year. I reluctantly accepted the evolution of friendships that ended. My heart recognized the slow disappearance of family traditions as the ties that bound us all together were breaking. I wept, feeling the frosty cloak of intolerance of a country whose diversity and richness was disappearing. I wrote down my thoughts, my commitments for the coming year, and said farewell. Sending my wishes into the unsettled world, I committed to move forward, following my new course that lied somewhere between that which I could control and that which I could not.

No matter what, I begin the new year with an open heart. I will say goodbye to this winter of my discontent and keep an eye toward adventure. And I say hello the woman I am ready to become.

40 Shades of Green

My husband and I recently returned from a long awaited vacation to the British Isles. It was time to take a break from our jobs, our family stress, and we left the heat and humidity of a midwestern summer behind to discover places like Ireland, and its breathtaking green hills and rolling landscape. It was just the two of us this trip, cruising our way to a new port of call each day, content with letting others take us on adventures to castles, misty overlooks, and an occasional pub. It was good to get away from the obligation of regular life, and the day-to-day rut in which we’d found ourselves at home. While serving as our vacation photographer, I captured every nook and cranny of palace walls, gardens, and local “color”. I wondered what life would be like living amongst the sheep, the gardens, and felt a little jealous of what seemed a simpler life. Everything was different than home. Somehow, back home was no longer the haven I needed it to be – and I felt a longing for the change the “greener” grass could provide.

Life sneaks up on you when you aren’t looking. Growing older is something for which you’re never truly prepared. I sought the emotional contentment that mindfulness could provide me as I transitioned from working full-time mom and wife, to working empty nester. My search for a new “norm” led my friends and I to ponder, “Is this all there is?” Why does the grass always seem greener on the other side of midlife? Where was the freedom and fulfillment I sought at the end of the proverbial rainbow?

The older I get, the more I long for the days when I was younger, in better physical shape, and more tolerant of change. I hadn’t expected the breathtaking view of green pastures to push me into such uncomfortable emotional territory. Looking at my family, my marriage, and my life driven by my societal obligations, I used to ask myself, “Am I enough?” But now, amongst sheep and dairy cows, I found myself asking, “Is this enough?”

After a day abundantly filled with Irish splendor, our tour group returned to the bus. As if our day had come full circle, we sat back in the same seat as when we set out, ready for our tour to be done. On our drive back, we were told a story of an American on vacation in Ireland. Overcome by the beauty of the lush green and the variations of shade with every turn, this man took to his guitar to write a love song. It’s hard to say if Johnny Cash felt more for what he discovered but left behind or the future that lied ahead.

Again I want to see and do
The things we’ve done and seen
Where the breeze is sweet as Shalimar
And there’s forty shades of green

It may take me a while to decide how felt about Ireland. However, knowing that forty shades of “what could have been” will continue to remind me that each day is filled with possibility I cannot ignore. And for that, I am grateful.

Midlife in the rearview mirror

I recently celebrated my 60^th birthday. It was bittersweet, as up until now, I considered myself middle-aged. Not too young, not too old…just right. But as the clock ticked toward this milestone, I was slowly reassessing my midlife momentum into the inevitability of growing “old”.

People say that you are only as old as you feel. These days, however, I’m not feeling the same as I used to feel. I look in the mirror at the aging visage of my soul, which has been changing with each passing day. When did my freckled dots align with the creases of my smile to become a weathered roadmap to growing older? It felt like I was headed straight past the midlife point of no return without a witty comeback. With a heavy dose of snark and sass, I was speeding down the road to “older but wiser”. No chance to turn around, I was following the wrinkled path across my face that was most certainly leading to midlife destruction.

I am proud to say that during these past several years, I’ve worked hard to clear out the baggage of my younger days, which served no purpose other than to block the path to my next adventure. I’d also spent a lot of time wiping down the cobwebs that had covered the windows to my soul. Once cleared, I could finally gaze into the light of the mindful, meaningful woman I’d become. I can now proceed unencumbered, carrying the knowledge I’d curated from my middle years like a GPS to my next destination. But who was I going to be when I got there?

With the odometer marking my journey into the wisdom of my age, I am headed down a new road. I am shifting my lessons in mindfulness from maternal angst into something bold. Am I guided by the lines in my face and the curves in my road? Most definitely. I can’t get to where I need to be without them. And it’s time I put this car in drive.

A last goodbye

Someone close to me died recently. She had filled her life with love and fun and upheaval and all the things that create one’s personal story. She fought valiantly to hold on to the life she’d made, and when she said her last goodbye, we mourned the empty space in our lives that was filled with this person and all she was. While the circle of life continued, we paused to reflect on our own.

When you’re young, life seems to be a race with the prize at the end of it, promising the feeling of success and gratitude. The walking stick we carry as we journey could be our faith, or simply our plan, and it helps us pace our effort, steady us in troubled times, or measure out our achievements in all we set out for ourselves. However, by the time midlife approaches, we seem to look ahead with less intensity and look back more to what we’ve ezperienced along the way. The well-paying job is no longer the proud accomplishment of a young professional but a means to an end to support family and friends in need. The lean and fit body achieved at the gym is no longer a testament to devotion to one’s health as it is more the promise given to loved ones. The value of being present for years to come is worth more than the immediate satisfaction of the weekend party. The young are writing their story, but at what point did I shift from looking forward to all I had yet to do, to looking back to all that I had not done?

Death can come at any time, and regret is a terrible thing – a constant reminder of the road not taken. However, it is the people in your life who eventually become the measure of one’s success, the chapters in your story. The pictures at the memorial service shared a life filled with challenge, fun times, and love. Our recent family loss made me wonder how I would be remembered by others, and how my story would be told. I wept, understanding that the loss I felt was being shared by so many others.

This journey to mindfulness has been instrumental to me, allowing me to release many of the earlier expectations I had placed for myself. In midlife – I love differently, trying to accept more of what is and letting go of what may never be. I shift my personal perspective from one of overachiever to one of memory maker. Finally embracing the story I’d written until now, I love myself more. This self-acceptance will allow me to fail less and accomplish more.

Death and inevitability is not easy. Learning that while moments in life may be a constant, how you look at them can change. At some point I too will say my last goodbye, and hope that my history will have been written into the hearts of those who are left behind.

The road to gratitude

When it comes to my drive to work, I can be a creature of habit. My normal route was closed for what could be many months, so I had to find my way in unfamiliar territory. A particular route was suggested to me and after driving it one morning, my outlook changed from uncertain to clear. This was, what seemed to me, to be a direct path from my morning coffee to my day’s activities. I don’t have the best sense of direction without recognizable landmarks, so I couldn’t wait for a less stressful commute.

I began driving this new route, paying attention to new landmarks I encountered along the way. In my midlife, I wanted to pay closer attention to the world around me: trying to see things for what they were, rather than just in the context of my life. My morning would connect me with park, a small casino built within an older looking building, a police station, and an urban mural (that has a nasty pothole that woke me out of my daze one day). As a fan of cultural history, I appreciated my mental meanderings of what this area might have looked like 50 years ago. Was the police station I passed built before the casino? Wasn’t that convenient, I smirked. The park was big with green grass and I considered how thought must have gone into placing this urban gem. I noted the pedestrians up early as I navigated my way to work, wondering if they had to be at work too.

It was after I’d become acclimated to my drive that I felt more confident in my route. My estimated arrival time was consistent, my intuition for timing the stoplights just right was improving. My path was clear, my commute relatively unhindered, and I knew I could get to where I needed to be. But what about that park, where I never seemed to see any children? Or those pedestrians, whom I’d now noticed becoming more prolific, not just walking, but standing in lines at specific businesses waiting for them to open? I noticed them daily, somehow stuck in that place, not seeing if they were able to move on to where they ultimately needed to be. Or was that where they needed to be? It certainly wasn’t the dilapidated old brick church, that had been boarded up to keep people safe from harm (or rather, keep it safe from people to harm?) I wondered if the lines were for those seeking assistance. Maybe they did get to where they were going.

I do not commute every day, so my experience is always a little different. The street remains the same, as simple and direct as ever, as well as my morning affirmations. I see where I need to go, but the things I notice, the people I see, and the places I pass are all different. They are different, yet in the flow of the morning I see patterns. Fences where I wasn’t expecting them. Lots of convenience-oriented shops, catering to people always on the move. And not much car traffic but always lines of people with slow steps of those who seem a little hesitant. Yesterday, I reminded myself of how fortunate I was to have a place to go and way to get there. I saw a man near a bus stop whose journey was likely not over, but had not yet begun for the day. He was partially covered, asleep, no doubt soon to wonder where his path would take him that day.

The road to gratitude can be found on any map. You just have to be willing to start your day.

In search of wonder

It was after a recent conversation with a friend that I had come to ponder the adventure of midlife. It seemed that in all that we had become over the years, our life journey was often about an ongoing search for bigger and better things. Whether it was the bigger house for growing a family, a better job for making a vacation possible, or the support of the eventual goals of children as they charted their own paths – it was always about finding more.

Understanding that every parent’s journey is different, mine was often busy with the job of lookout: signs of a fever, family passions to support, or my kids’ falling grades. My world was being on guard, ready to respond in a time of need. Little did I realize that this mode of always being on watch takes a heavy toll as you are not often open to the joy of what is happening all around you. Always monitoring, ever managing, it is easy for the wonder in the world to pass you by.

When my household said goodbye to my children and we became a home of two, I was able to take the time I’d made for myself to cultivate my friendships, family relationships, and seek out new and fun experiences I’d not been able to do before now. Some of my friends who are retired share that retirement allowed them to travel and accomplish things they’d put off doing in their younger years. But retirement is nowhere close for me, just as winning the lottery to fund my exploration is a realistic option these days. So after a quieter life of dinners and trips and volunteer work, the discovery of something new wanes and routine rubs the shine away from our world. The sparkle is seen through a lens of practicality and I had to ask: Is this all there is in midlife?

I reflected on this question for quite a while. Even as I interviewed for a new job this past year, I noted how much I focused on all that that I had accomplished to set me apart from other candidates. And that dreaded question, “Where do you see yourself 5 years from now?” Truth be told, my real answer wasn’t going to impress anyone, but reflect how I saw my midlife search for joy. I wanted a job that fulfilled my desire for challenge as well as work-life balance. I wanted the ability to explore what I had missed in my early years. What about all that I hadn’t seen in my life?

I’d determined that my longing for newness, for wonder, was not in finding something unexperienced, but rather unseen. Being on watch would mean something very different to me now, as I work to rediscover the joy I’d missed the first time around. Realizing that I would need to be mindful in these next steps on my journey, I enjoyed my granddaughter’s recent amazement at her space-oriented birthday gift. Upon learning we had sent her name “into space” through a NASA program prompted her imagination as she shared that the “aliens would now know her name”. I found my limited exposure to the wonders of the world had just been expanded and that my reinvigorated search for wonder had just begun.

One lone Santa…

This year, I took down the holiday decorations right after Christmas. This is unusual for me, as I revel in the coziness that is created by the festive trees and bows and glitter – even though all the presents have been opened and the cannisters of holiday treats are still out for all to enjoy. Fueled by my trente-sized coffee, I tackled this work, driven by an unseen force to clean the space, sweep the holiday aside, and move on to the new year. In a combination of zeal and precision and sadness, I was mentally saying goodbye to what was and preparing for the year to come.

There is a sadness to stripping my tall Christmas tree of all the beaded branches, bedazzled birds and shiny balls with their misshapen hooks. I normally go through a process of removing branches first, then fragile glass and crystal pieces, etc. until I have only the basic ornaments and ribbon left. The remaining ribbon, drooping and scattered around the base, having been pried off the top and pulled towards the bottom, rests in a mess I can wrangle as I attempt to roll it in a manageable spiral. As I tread in circles around the tree, I feel like the frustrated person banging their head against the wall….round and round I go – where I stop, no one knows. It mirrors my mood of the deflating balloon, and when the tree is completely empty, it is as lifeless as I feel.

This empty tree parallels my mood. Not more than a month or so ago, I fluffed and hung every bit of sparkle and ornamental memory of days gone by to display for all to see. The tiny lights added a glow to every moment, making me feel optimistic about my life and humbly grateful that year for what seemed like life worth living. In the glow of my evening tree, I would often whisper to the universe my grateful Thank Yous. Joy was truly in these moments. But now, the halls are no longer decked, and my twinkling reminders to be grateful are gone.

The emptiness between the bustle of Christmas and the ringing in of the New Year is often a time I feel lonely. Who gathers and where during this time can define one’s core family and home base. And those who turn to social media to connect with friends across the miles, this forum can often distort the nature of true friendship, teaching us that because someone sees the details of our life automatically creates a bond with them. It does not. What I have learned, in my midlife, is that friendship requires people reaching out to the other, across the divide, to be a part of each other’s lives, not just be a witness to it. During the holidays, when I make extra effort to strengthen my ties to those I hold dear, I lean too far to reach across this divide. And when I fall, I don’t feel brave, but defeated.

It was in this moment that my bare tree found me, only to share a message I needed to hear. In my melancholy self-reflection, I had found a lone Santa ornament, tucked away among the center branches. Hiding in plain sight, it had blended in with the brown and green twigs that had lost their shiny adornments. Unknowingly, I had regarded my work as done, my tree was bare, and my holiday over. What I found is that it was not necessary to shine a light on the spirit of the season. Finding him only reminded me that even when we cannot see what may be right in front of us, we are never truly alone.

The right to be grateful

For several years, my renewed path to mindfulness included my focus on gratitude. As I became a parent, it became even clearer that the comfortable life in which I was raised was what I wanted for my children. I wanted them to not be spoiled, but free from worry about being in a safe neighborhood, free from concern about whether we would be able to pay the utility bill, or have enough money for the basic meals AND snacks. While today’s teens assume a cell phone and computer is a basic right, I wanted my family to be able to go to the doctor whenever there was a need. Being fully insured, fully fed, and fully entertained was our goal. Being fully educated was the underlying theme at every family discussion. At least it was for me. Having all these things meant my family was on their way to success, and I was grateful to be able to provide this for them as it was provided for me. So there was little doubt that when I became an empty nester, my attention should be directed in showing gratitude and being thankful for the grace I’d received.

Many of my enlightened friends were also at this point in their lives. We considered it a test of our faith or moral character. Acknowledging the ability to live free from most worries allowed us to be humble. To celebrate our personal freedom of no longer being the maniacal mother of teenage tyrants, but now living the life of respectful humility. We’d made it. If our children were still around to tell the tale and visit us on an occasional weekend, it was all good. However, my meditation on the benefits of being grateful took me down a thoughtful turn I had not expected. Was being grateful enough?

The basis of gratitude implies that you exist within a world that provides. That you are seen. That your voice is heard. And that you have succeeded. However, after much thought, I have concluded that the richness of one’s comfort is not earned by hard work. It seems, in part, that the privilege of being grateful is due to being born into circumstances that grant you the right to have. For all of my life, I have looked to my parents as they worked and struggled and then as my spouse and I worked and struggled to provide for our family. Little had I realized that my privilege did not just come from my hard work, but that my ancestors were able to own their home. That my parents shopped freely without fear and provided me things many others did not have. When my children had scrapes with the law, I could rescue them without further recourse as I was not second guessed as a bad mother or worse, judged as less than human. Gratitude had become my evidence of privilege.

I cannot begin to share with you how this troubles me. Being grateful, recognizing that I could have lived without but did not, was part of my midlife commitment to peace. Learning that this peace came at a price that I did not pay is overwhelming to me. How do I reconcile the future I want to provide my children, with addressing these inequities so that all mothers can be grateful and provide for theirs?

I do not have the answers to this, but like a pebble in my shoe, each step I take on this journey is a painful lesson that peace often comes at a cost. How expensive it is will be determined by how we share our ability to be grateful with others.

What lies at my altar…

In a time where it is easy to lose one’s faith in humanity and the simple gratitude for life, I am reminded of the many ways we celebrate our faith, our belief in goodness, and the power of this universe to shelter the evolution of our love for one another. Some find purpose in making time to help others. Others find fulfillment in prayer or solitude. Nowadays, I find myself restless and unable to focus what gives my life meaning. I look for things to clean and people to hold, to support, and to talk to. At times I worry that the periods of quiet in my life foretell of my becoming irrelevant and unnecessary.

As an empty nester, I feel like a parent in absentia. As a spouse, I’ve become an explorer into my self discovery. As an American, I’ve become an activist in the battle between privilege and achievement. My life these days seems full of planning and checklists. What do they say? Life is what happens when you’re making plans. However, even among the checklists and the schedules, I strive to live my life in mindfulness. Even in midlife, I still find myself caught between the lessons of the past and the planning for the future. It is for this reason I build my personal altar. It is here that I can maintain the focus on my life, the important things, and my daily midlife journey.

I am not a church goer. I do not pray at an altar or kneel in reverence at temple. I have, however, found great peace in creating a personal altar of sacred things. My things. My mementos. Periodically adding items of value and meaning to me and lessons in gratitude they represent in my life. A button from my father’s jacket to remind me of how a negative memory of someone close to you can change over time and become the good thing you need it to be. A sand dollar collected from the beach in the city I love that reminds me that I can simply close my eyes to remember the wet sand and cool breeze of my youth. A sandalwood scented candle placed in front of me is ready to light with the intent of breathing in my joy and breathing out my gratitude.

This altar tethers me to the choices I make in my life and how I want to matter. I don’t like feeling lost. I don’t like feeling angry at a cruel world and at he ignorance of others. At times, it is difficult to remain hopeful when there is so much ugliness and misfortune. However, in spite of it all, I find myself swinging between the times of awe and thankfulness for the moments of wonder and beauty I encounter in my life and the sorrow at the inevitability of the destruction of our planet and all its creatures.

At this altar, I have my candle to light my path when it has grown dark. I have my dragonfly to remind me that natural beauty is appreciating the individual, not always comparing one to the brilliantly colored butterfly. I have mementos of my family that keep me focused on my love for them and how I can strive to always be a teacher, or a friend. All these things, and more, allow me to not become overwhelmed in the abundance of things. I live in the acknowledgement that while I am not responsible for the lives and actions of others, I can be humble and grateful for what I have. I can strive to make a difference in my midlife that will be just as good as making a difference as just a parent or wife.

How is your journey and what do you do to make your life matter? What lies at your altar?

A wrinkle in my twinkle

My life has not always been easy. Ups and downs and things that scared me to my core took me to places that forever affected me. Now, I laugh more. I smile more. Less bothers me because I know that it wastes precious energy to sweat the small stuff. However, it has recently come to my attention that in my efforts to remain youthful in both spirit and smile, I am starting to wrinkle. Not in the cute creases of my twinkling eyes, but in the sag of my sagacity.

As a mom of former teenagers, I’ve often taken a discerning view of what life puts in my path. I trust, but am not always trusting. I am happy, but not always joy-filled. The direction I’ve taken in my life comes with qualification – with details, and with explanation. I’ve learned to take the good with the not-so-great. While I believe that life is what you make it, it is never perfect. Lessons one learns often come with a price. If you’re lucky, the wisdom that comes with experience shapes you in ways you’re proud of. Every crease, every fold, every dip into the unknown takes you to a new place. Being mindful of my steps, I focus on where I’m going. I measure my effort. I breathe in the gratitude of knowing that while each day is a gift, I am making the most out of my walks through this life. I couldn’t always say this but I appreciate that I can now.

Looking in the mirror, I see my life shaping my face, my physique, and my joy. I feel I must look past the wrinkle in my twinkle and relish the passion that has put it there. I must work hard to continue my walk down the path of mindfulness. Remaining in the present and not trying to plan my way out of midlife has been difficult. I don’t want to be stuck, but the mirror reminds me that there is balance to every choice I make.

I’m enjoying my midlife journey, and trying not to focus to hard on the lines and turns that shape my midlife. As long as I am guided to a clear path, and sunshine lights my way, a little wrinkle in my twinkle reminds me this trip has been worth it.