Leap of Faith

This February has been an odd month and not just because of its extra day. Truth be told, I’m overwhelmed by the world’s extremes even though we are only two months into 2024. There’s too much of everything: violence, greed, temperature fluctuations, judgment, isolation and despair. I have mixed feelings about the future and where I want to go with my life while I teeter on the edge of a great cliff in indecision.

I picture The Fool’s card in the traditional tarot where a happy-go-lucky fellow and his dog step off into the abyss blissfully unconcerned about where they’re heading. I wish I were that optimistically oblivious, or foolish as the case may be. When I was younger I welcomed this card full of bright beginnings and games of fortune. But now in my mid-sixties I’m hedging my bets and conserving energy. Maybe there’s not enough time to start over, I tell myself.

On top of all the uncertainty, my old patterns and stumbling blocks keep turning up like bad pennies refusing to accept defeat. Every time I think I’ve moved on, they stick their little dysfunctional legs out to trip me up before I even get to the edge of the cliff. If anything I roll down the hill, only to face toiling back up the same path again like Sisyphus.

On this extra day of the year, I look back at the last Leap Day in 2020 on the brink of a great continental shift where the viral tectonic plates completely changed humankind’s landscape. When the dust clears I realize the path has changed but the lessons have not. I continue to struggle with the old insecurities.

Perhaps that’s just the way life is, to constantly experience new variations of the same old songs even as you desperately try to change the channel. The big change from four years ago on this extra day are the hopes and bulbs I have planted all around my yard. As new ones magically appear daily, my soul feels a little lighter, my countenance a smidge softer, my dark mood a bit brighter. Every year I vow to bring in more life that resurrects every spring, that pushes up from despairing ground with impossible joy and colorful exuberance.

This is my leap of faith. I may not be sure what other setbacks and pitfalls the world will hurl at me but I know the flowers always return.

Into Focus

My 2023 Year of Healing draws to a close with good results, I’m happy to report. I managed to avoid anything contagious this year, and actually improved some of my chronic conditions. Along the way I learned a few tips. First, when you are stressed to your limits your body will let you know. Listen to it. Second, be open to new treatments and approaches while trusting your intuition to find what you need. It’s remarkably accurate. Third, choose balance in all things. Just because you overdo it occasionally doesn’t mean all is lost. Be kind to yourself over your human frailties. An extra piece of pie won’t kill you, as long as it’s not every day (and is gluten-free).

The completion of my 12-year socks and a couple of daily art challenges this year has encouraged my self-esteem enough to venture into uncharted territory. All my life, I’ve had difficulty completing projects and establishing a daily regimen. Now, with a calmer perspective and a healthy lack of chaos in my life I caste my eye about my surroundings for other specters of incompletion such as the scrapbook patiently waiting to be filled with my daughter’s childhood art, abandoned journals hiding furtively about the house, boxes of art supplies languishing in the basement not to mention various blank canvases crying out for paint. And of course, there are the many beautiful books barely begun and left to dust on bookshelves.

The problem is that I tend to get distracted easily (Squirrel!!!!!!!) and start too many projects. And I’ve only mentioned some of the indoor work that would be best to finish this winter. When spring comes, you gardeners know all too well that work never ends until the yard is frozen solid which in my area doesn’t happen until January. Harvesting, preserving and planning for next year then rear their little green heads demanding attention before I break ground in a few months.

So what does all this background demand for 2024? Lists. Organization. Daily practice. And most important, forgiveness. Perfection must take a backseat to good enough. And if the project no longer gives me joy or serves a purpose other than finishing it, I must let it go. Combine that with the ongoing routine of good diet, moderate exercise, plenty of sleep and the right pair of reading glasses, I have much to FOCUS on in 2024, which is my word for the year.

So, if you come upon me staring down at a patch of dirt next year mumbling to myself, or covered in glue amid a mess of paper, know that I am putting my word into practice.

I wish you peace, health and happiness in the New Year, my friends.

Happy Endings

I can’t remember when I began knitting these socks but there’s documentation from the summer of 2011. They were meant to be light summer knitting in between my big projects. They came out during road trips as a way to keep me busy on long car rides because reading makes me car sick. They have been moved to new homes three times, and have seen the world change in incomprehensible ways.

I probably completed the first sock about seven years ago while celebrating a great feeling of accomplishment. However, the problem with socks is that they come in pairs and you’re only halfway there after one is done. While the first sock’s life was fairly stable, the second one has been battered by crisis and upheaval most of its life. Some years it never saw the light of day and remained forgotten in its old drawstring bag from the Apple Store.

During a recent heatwave this August, I decided to finish the poor thing for good while listening to audio books from our local library app, my new obsession. Of course, I had forgotten how to turn a heel and knit gussets but countless YouTube videos later, I managed to produce something that looked somewhat like the first one. The stripes don’t match perfectly but there is nothing precise about handmade.

Unfortunately I was not finished yet. Somehow during the years of waiting, the first sock had developed a hole in the cuff that took hours to mend as I struggled to prevent unraveling of all my efforts. There may be a lesson here but I’m too tired to figure it out. Will I ever knit a pair of socks again? If I do, I’ll look for an easier pattern with circular needles instead the traditional double-pointed method. I imagine my knitting ancestors would have done the same if given the choice.

After a good bath the pair are finally ready to venture out in the world and warm my toes this winter. Let’s just hope that the wool doesn’t give me foot rash.

Sweet September

As the Super Harvest Moon continues to cast its powerful spell across the land, I find giddy satisfaction in harvesting and storing this summer’s bounty by freezer, fridge and shelf. My garden won’t be stopped by cooler nights and drier days. The tomatoes, peppers and green beans refuse to quit while carrots and sweet potatoes wait in the wings for their debut. The asters, boneset, white snakeroot, goldenrod, cosmos and zinnias shine in their glory this fall among the summer flowers that hold on, refusing to let go.

As bad as last September was for me and my health issues, I marvel at how much difference a year makes. I have enough energy to walk seven miles in one day and work in my gardens daily while making plans for next year. Since January, I’ve traveled, attended workshops and taken full advantage of my city’s public transportation. Even though I still avoid crowded indoor spaces, I really enjoy the outdoor fairs and community events that enrich my life after a three-year hiatus.

So far my Year of Healing has been a success, in part because I’m grateful for the simple little things — from an effortless stroll around my neighborhood to a scenic drive among the local rolling hills. The pandemic has changed so many aspects but I’m not going to let it restrict the rest of my life. I must admit that my physical minimalism has slipped a notch (gardening, food preservation and heating with wood have necessitated some accumulation). But what hasn’t changed is my commitment to letting go of the emotional and spiritual junk that no longer serves me, the self-destructive and limiting notions that keep me from living my best life.

I let go and let live to the bugs and weeds and unconscious comments made by the self-absorbed. Instead, I take time for sweet bird songs, chipmunk’s chit, a deer’s soft graze, buzzing bees in my backyard, and the inner light’s bloom of a Japanese morning glory.

Time to savor the sweet nectar of autumn.

Chicken Sitting

When my neighbors left for a vacation this month, I found myself babysitting four feisty hens for five days. Did I mention that chickens are not my favorite creatures? Here’s why:

My teen years were difficult enough, but I was given the job of chicken wrangler to a flock of White Rock poultry, the meanest, most henpecking and carnivorous birds I have ever encountered. They plucked each other bald, ate their own eggs and attacked me out of spite when I tried to retrieve any eggs they laid. I was regularly dragging out dead bodies from the coop and the smell of my father’s chicken butchering has lingered in my nose for decades. My job was to pluck the feathers after decapitation.

That said, I find their manure makes the best fertilizer and the scent of Sunday roast chicken is one of the best in the world. So to say the least, I’m conflicted.

Flash forward to the present flock of birds who are named and considered pets. I start out impartial and cautious. Letting them out of their coop in the morning is easy, but herding them in at night is a challenge. The first day happens to be the hottest day of the summer and instead of cooling off when night falls, the heat index continues to register at over 90 degrees Fahrenheit. There is not a breath of breeze and the chickens are panting, clearly stressed.

I’m outside at 10pm trying to ventilate the coop while mosquitos feast on me, watching the heat lightening flash like a strobe light. Eventually I give up and go to bed only to be awakened by a torrential downpour, two inches in half an hour. But luckily the storm has broken the heatwave and temperatures drop to acceptable levels that last the rest of the week. Despite my reservations, the chickens and I form a bond of trust. Somehow they seem to appreciate me and I begin to like them.

They each have a personality that I can recognize and respect. When they see me they run to the fence, and I offer them any insect pests from my garden that I come across. They generously leave their eggs for me to collect unscathed, and I give them treats throughout the day. When the local red-tailed hawk hovers nearby, I rush out and scare it off, protective of my flock. I have become a chicken mama.

And then the neighbors return from vacation. I go back to being the chicken-less next-door lady. But every once in a while, I turn to see them watching me, pressed against the fence and waiting for me to join them.

I must admit that I miss them but roast chicken is still part of my favorite Sunday dinner.

Hazy Days

In June I took my first proper vacation in four years, traveling to the smoky Blue Ridge views among the Appalachians. Armed with a battery of supplies for any health flare ups, I found that fun in the sun was all I really needed in my first aid kit. I even floated down the French Broad River through Asheville in a fancy inner tube, a first for me! There were the requisite visits to the Biltmore, Chimney Rock and many of the waterfalls from The Last of the Mohicans movie with Daniel Day-Lewis, filmed entirely in that part of North Carolina.

While I was gone the Canadian wildfires covered the east and midwest with a thick blanket of smoke, and although some managed to work its way into our vacation, it was a little hard to tell the difference between the regular summer mountain haze and the northern visitor. All I know is that the combined atmosphere added to the charm of the ombré vistas as we hiked miles every day through shade-dappled forests and bright botanical gardens.

My return home in July, however, was marked with violent storms (including a derecho), air pollution and suffocating heat. It was a true testament to our sense of preparedness to order and stack a winter’s worth of firewood in unbearable humidity. I’m sure we’ll enjoy the release of some of that warmth in our wood stove in the coming months but until then just looking at the cords of wood gives me hot flashes.

After a cool and dry May, my home gardens have experienced enough rain to thrive and produce lots of greens, garlic, onions, broccoli, cabbage, peas, peppers and tomatoes despite the soaring temperatures in July. The flower blooms have been continuous and more natives found their way to the yard, either by wind, bird or purchase at the farmer’s market. The butterflies and hummingbirds finally arrived to join an astounding number of rabbits. The insects are voracious this year, including my personal nemesis — the chiggers. I have never been host to so many in my life, even after spraying repellent on my legs every morning and washing my feet at night. I had no idea I was so delicious.

So far this summer has been all that the last one wasn’t, and not a day goes by that I’m not reminded of how different life can be in the span of a year. I’m very grateful to realize the fruits of our labor on a small plot in the midst of a city where we can walk to the local farm stand or take a bus to our university’s extensive art museum that is free to the pubic. It’s so nice to finally enjoy the cultural attractions of our new town, which is why we chose to move here.

In August public schools and university begin and students will fill the streets with u-hauls and back-to-school parties. We old folks will continue our slow summer, watching the remaining fireflies flash in the dusk as the crickets tune up for their serenades and the birds prepare for migration. I’ll still be able to witness the beans climb and the squash change color on the vine.

And soon, I will look up to a crisp azure sky and know that the hazy days are over.

The Magic Door

The door to our home’s crawl space may seem ordinary, but I’d like to think there is a magical world inside, one that I travel to at night in my dreams. When I enter this land, the colors are brighter and the air fresher, plants and animals glow with vibrant life and while there I carry no physical maladies. A sense of peace walks beside me as I travel without fear of what lies ahead. I look forward to the surprises I encounter rather than dread them while time has no pace there.

In some ways I have never left that enchanted land when morning comes. A year ago, I was in a very different space. Even before contracting Covid, my body was already overreacting to the environment and my mental outlook was full of dark dangers lurking in every outing and outside contact. I functioned in crisis mode and expected only the bad. Any glitch was the biggest calamity ever.

When the bottom fell out last summer and I struggled to get through one day at a time, I couldn’t imagine anything feeling normal again. All I saw was the worst case scenario and nobody could reassure me that everything would be all right. The most tragic part of all was that I lost faith in myself and my ability to heal and move on. I was lost forever in a dark kingdom where life was dull and lackluster.

Slowly but surely, I found my way. Through the helpful advice of healers along the path, the support of friends and family who stayed by my side and the restorative powers I found in nature, my world began to brighten and expand. My body started to respond to treatment and my mind focused on the positive again.

As I come up on the one-year anniversary of my illness last June and the changes that came from that journey, I open the door to my house every day, wandering around in wonder at the bright flowers and vibrant gardens that have continued to flourish with and without my help. I marvel at the abundant wildlife that chooses my little yard for their homes and allows me to witness their cycles, the feeding, mating, births, struggles and even the endings.

I am grateful every day for the magical moments I live in.

Return to Splendor

As part of my healing journey this year I find myself returning to the past to confront my anger, loss and regrets. Last weekend I had the chance to revisit my last address before moving to my present home. Like so many these days, what I found there after three years of upheaval no longer resembles what I remember. Those left behind have changed and so have I.

Five years ago, my husband and I moved to a retreat center where we had hopes of living with like-minded people in an environmentally conscious community that honored land recovering from the ravages of agricultural abuse for decades. We wanted to grow organic food and create a safe haven for all beings in a chaotic world. We helped with the retreat center which hosted all kinds of spiritual and healing retreats.

We lived in our own private space but shared close living quarters with other community members. Our understanding was that the community shared other aspects of life as well like chores, tools and contributions. Unfortunately what looked good on paper did not translate well to real life. When egos are involved, misunderstandings and imbalance can quickly develop. We eventually recognized that this wasn’t so much a community but a collection of individuals who held very different ideas about the direction we were headed.

Sadly, my husband and I came to realize that this living situation wasn’t going to work for us, and so we bought a little bungalow in a city we enjoyed and moved away, vowing never to return because it hurt too much. Returning to relive the lost hopes and dreams of a previous life seemed unthinkable three years ago. But then pandemic, illness, death and time’s passage have a way of shifting the focus from past hurts to present challenges.

A dear friend I made while living at the retreat center, one of the few positives from that brief adventure, had a birthday coming up and I was given the chance to return for a celebration. I saw this as another opportunity for healing and accepted the invitation. The weekend turned out to be very enjoyable because I gathered with like-minded people, met new friends, reconnected with those still living at the center and returned to a piece of land that spoke to my heart.

And I happened to visit during a special time when the bluebells were in bloom. There is an enchanted place along the river with more of these fairy ephemerals than I’ve ever seen anywhere else. On a glorious Sunday morning I found myself wandering solo into the middle of a blue-hazed glade with the music of rippling water in my ears, once again falling under its spell. At that moment, I knew for certain that no matter where I live a part of me will always feel at home here.

The Long Road Back

2023 began with an ending, and we found ourselves heading back east for my father’s funeral in January. After almost four years, my first trip since the pandemic was a sad one. Coming out of such a long confinement, the journey we have made countless times seemed longer and my relatives looked older, the kids bigger. We all had to get to know each other again, and I for one, am not the same person I was in 2019. The family dynamics had shifted of course, and we struggled to gain some kind of footing while wading through the mementos of a long life.

Tables were piled high with photo albums full of forgotten family, dusty yearbooks of a life before mine, and innumerable slides that couldn’t be viewed unless you held those tiny squares up to the light. Fresh young faces lit by flash bulbs smiled at me with such bright hopes for the future, yet to be dulled by disappointments and setbacks, mind-numbing responsibilities and grinding routines.

As expected there were no end-of-life plans to fall back on so we the living fumbled through the arrangements as best we could, trying to honor and remember while finding a final resting place. The quest took me back to the cemetery where the families of both my parents are gathered, grandparents and great-grandparents, great-aunts and uncles. It’s also close to the little apartment over my grandfather’s garage where my parents began their life together and where I started mine. As strange as the recent past seemed to me now after the pandemic, the distant past still felt the same as I listened to my uncle recount stories of the places he’d lived and mischief he’d caused while we drove the narrow roads of my early childhood, through horse country that had magically transformed into suburban estates somewhere along the way.

The tribute to a life fully lived ended with the sudden crack of a gun salute on a bitter-cold winter afternoon and then we found ourselves gathered around the familiar table, telling the old stories and recalling special moments both present and past. As much as I had dreaded a reunion, the vital connections made to the living on this visit resulted in great healing, which ironically (or not) is the word I’ve chosen for this year. May this kind of heart healing continue as we all navigate a changed new world.

Peace in Pieces

I must say my word for 2022 took interesting twists and turns. “Peace” did not come easily this year while war, social turmoil, health issues and brutal weather events attempted to disrupt any gains I made in my inner and outer work. In overcoming the challenges and setbacks during these past months, I found occasional moments of serenity more precious than gold. Life’s chaos taught me that achieving peace is a state of mind first, and then the rest will follow.

Looking back, I feel like the first half of the year was spent under pressure, hurrying from project to project as we began to venture out of our quarantines. After two years of staying put with good excuses not to make any real plans, the starting gate was flung open and suddenly there were deadlines and invitations and expectations. Although I told myself that life had changed, I fell back into the old patterns and mindset all too quickly, thinking that we were guaranteed good health after taking all the prescribed steps. But vaccinations and wishful thinking don’t prevent infection, and the wily virus knocked my legs out from under me and sent me to bed, for months.

During the long, sleepless nights, I had plenty of time for review. It seems like the Universe is determined to give me a chance to see the error of my ways, namely that I am always ignoring chronic health issues that won’t just go away on their own. I had to make some conscious decisions to find healthcare that worked for me instead of settling for systems chosen by my insurance company. Going off of the conventional path to discover lifestyle alternatives seemed scary at first, but I followed my intuition and knew in my heart that my healing couldn’t just come from a pill. I had to educate myself first and then pay attention to how my body reacts to remedies.

Ultimately the greatest healer was time. And in a period of gestation that couldn’t be rushed, I found peace. Regardless of what was going on around me, when I needed to rest I would rest. When I needed to eat then a snack was in order no matter the hour. I began to chart my body’s functions like a mother does with a newborn, and I needed to establish a routine that would accommodate my medicine, supplements, exercise, nutrition and sleep patterns. I discovered that audio books were a marvelous way to fall asleep and that certain voices lulled me off to dreamland like a little child.

In childlike surrender I found the peace of taking one day at a time. Each day would be unique, with different symptoms and patterns. It was a bit like a big puzzle, and I found that when I stopped thinking about the causes so much, the simple solutions would come to me. I had to let go of the anger and blame I held toward the conventional healthcare system and providers who didn’t care or were too rushed to listen. And finally, when I stopped depending on others to fix me and took the reigns for my own life decisions, I found peace of mind. Like Dorothy in Oz I’d had the ability to reach this place all along; I just needed to try.

So I say goodbye to 2022 a little older, wiser, stronger and at peace. And I wish you peace as well as we enter a New Year.