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Just one more day….
It was just the start of Summer. The boys were out of school and we had six weeks of exciting adventures ahead of us. And now it’s back to school and in a month, it will be Fall.
Each season is welcomed, necessary, but it’s hard to say goodbye to the memories and the promise of what was and the yearnings of what you wished it could be.
Nothing, no one, is perfect, yet we expect them to be so. Our expectations, disappointments, fray the veil of Life until, before you know it, it’s gone. It’s another chapter, turn the page, turn the page, turn the page, until you’ve reached the end of the book and are able
to see,
to see,
to see
what It was all about and finally begin to piece together the plot—the beginning, middle and end, the conflicts, relevance of settings, character development—and compliment the author for being brilliant, one-of-a-kind.
Getting old is such a gift; there’s an inherent perspective, healing and wisdom that goes along with the wrinkles and creaky bones. That ah-ha! realization sinks in that we might not always be right, that our ego and pride can be oppressive deterrents
to living fully,
to living mindfully,
to being free.
So, we let go,
of possessions,
of anger,
of jealousy
of judgment
and pray for peace, kindness and understanding for those we know and love, and those who appear to be our enemies.
Two nights ago, I met a couple from Riverside who moved to Paso Robles and now want to move to Idaho to get away from “the criminals”, the “invaders”.
“The world is full of bad people. Don’t let them tell you otherwise,” Kirt, a retired paramedic said. He and his wife travel in a desert-dusty, re-purposed Army jeep and never go anywhere without their guns.
“The only way to combat the enemy is to be stronger than they are,” he said, as his partner nodded in agreement.
Following our conversation and their suggestion to “make it look like you’re not traveling alone as a single woman,” I placed a tough-guy-brown second chair on my Navaho-esque outdoor rug and tried to make my campsite look less girlie. I then hunkered down inside Bonnie Doon, my Gaelic pretty fort, and locked the doors.
I thought: Maybe I need to buy those camo chairs and American flag I saw at the local outdoors store to indicate I’m not a push over, a potential victim?
It’s horrible to think I’m supposed to think like this, curtail my conversations, avoid revealing too much, but I was assured by Kirt and Janice that the world is full of horrible people, and I need to protect myself because “it’s only getting worse.”
“Come over for coffee,” they offered, after sharing a story of the night Kirt was chased down by a madman wielding an axe, only to be saved by an armed officer.
Am I brave to be travelling alone? Foolish? I’ve never once considered my vanlife adventures to be fool hearty. I take precautions. But perhaps, to others, I’m a sitting duck.
What I know is that life is short and if you spend your life worrying, fretting, thinking of the future instead of living for the present, it’s over before you know it. It’s Summer one day, then you blink your eye and it’s Fall. Your good friend is lunching with you, planning a trip back East to help her elderly mother, enjoying an ice cream cone at the place we always go to in El Segundo, talking about our adult children, grandchildren and then one morning you get a text from her husband that she’s gone. The life you thought you had, planned for your entire life, the love of your life, your best friend, your forever girlfriend, the mother of your kids, is dead following a heroic battle with an evil disease.
My friend who loved Fall, loved her students and the creativity and potential of public education, left Planet Earth last week. She was only 65, but spent three of those years duking it out with pancreatic cancer. She was a fighter, fierce and passionate who fearlessly stood up and spoke her truth, even at her own expense; she was quiet and reflective, hilarious and fun, regretful, determined, strong, brave, forgiving, and filled with faith up until her last breath as she let go, next to her beloved husband, holding hands until the very end.
She gave her all to everything she did and every person she knew, including me. On the day before I had a scheduled interview for a high school English teacher position, my friend, who also applied for a different assignment at RUHS but ultimately failed to get the job, knew how scared I was; she knew I didn’t think I was the kind of teacher the high school wanted; I was too old, too fat, too unconventional, and definitely not hip enough. But, what the heck, I was going to try anyway, give it my best shot. You know what my friend, Diane, did? She gave me a blinged-out necklace with a bee charm that said, “Be You”.
“Don’t be anyone else,” Diane told me, then hugged me with the love of a got-your-back little sister.
I wore the necklace to the interview, didn’t get the job, but my buddy was there the next morning to console me, “Their loss, our gain.”
It wasn’t that many summers ago that Diane and I were decorating our adjoining classrooms, hoping our colorful rooms would delight our middle school students. Our bubbling, bountiful classrooms certainly delighted us, after all, they would be our homes for the next 9.5 months. Diane and I always had Big Plans. “This is going to be the best year ever,” we’d say as we swapped Visual and Performing Arts lessons and ideas.
How can Summer almost be over? How can my friend and teacher colleague, a loyal confidant, defender of fellow educators, an out-of-the-box thinker, be gone?
Summer. Fall. Winter. Spring. The seasons are getting shorter and the lessons abound: Live with no regrets. Leave it all on the field. If you need to change plans, change them. Turn around and start again. Go forward, if that makes sense.
Make it right.
Make it just.
Jump in the damn cold ocean and swim, or not.
Just sit there. Think. Don’t think. Be kind to yourself and others. And above all, love, fiercely, passionately, like my dear friend who’s no doubt tap dancing in heaven wearing her comfortable Keen sandals, a flowy, polka dot skirt and those shiny pink nails with those blingy toe rings. Or maybe, just maybe, she’s incarnated into that sweet little orange butterfly that just landed on my Little Mermaid Croc, reminding me
to pay attention,
to be more thoughtful,
to be more mindful,
to notice the signs,
the gifts,
the love.
We scatter like flowers in a wedding procession, only to discover, often when it’s too late, how much we miss the beating heat of Summer; if only, we had one more day.
And so it begins …
I’m here, by my lonesome, which isn’t so lonesome, in the shade beneath my awning, typing away, tummy filled with a healthy salad, a glass of Albarino half-sipped, sunscreen-slathered, listening to the crashing waves, sheltered in my cozy van, away from the summer tourists; today I’m an open canvas with nothing on my agenda except a belated birthday lunch with a dear friend next Monday.
It’s been a summer! I’ve stopped and started writing projects so many times, but the interruptions jarred whatever flow and writer’s state of mind I was in. Six weeks! SIX weeks with family, grandchildren, in my van, in a condo, in a New York apartment shared with four other adults, five children, a big black dog and snarly cat. It was wonderful, energizing, uplifting, at times frustrating, and now over. A memory. A depleted bank account. Everyone back to their respective routines, before school and the chores of day-to-day start all over again.
But not me.
Routines, rituals, the predictable, proverbial, school bell aye-aye soldier-trumpeting class period changes, lunch, nutrition break, fire drills, school start and dismissals, are KAPUT from my life. When I retired after teaching 8th grade English Language Arts for almost two decades, I thought I’d struggle with the transition, thought I’d go back into the classroom as a volunteer, maybe sub. Never happened. I moved on, made a right turn, read books, helped with grandchildren, ex-husband, gardened, organized, tossed out, then a year into retirement, sold my house.
“I don’t want to be responsible,” was my mantra.
My grown kids didn’t get it. They were mad, sad, irritated at what looked to be a foolish decision.
I don’t know, maybe it was raising children as a divorced, 23-year-old single parent with a crappy ex-husband then devoting five decades to serving others that shifted my life’s course, my thinking. My shoulders were tired and I needed an extended vacation, as in, the rest of my life vacay, aka experience the 20s I never had because I was so busy being a responsible mom and wage-earner.
Being responsible is noble, necessary and important, but what I’m becoming increasingly aware of is that every time I get caught in the trap of feeling responsible for someone else’s problems, and trying to help, it never ends well. It’s depleting, aging and resurrects all kinds of flashbacks, failures, and self vows never again to get sucked in.
But I do.
I’m the boxer in the ring who fights longer than she should and gets her butt kicked. I’m the broken record you can’t part with because the worn-out grooves and chips evoke something sweet.
You know the cliché about being a broken record, well, that’s me.
Really, I mean REALLY, who listens to records anymore when you can conjure millions of tunes with a voice command? Ahh, that’s right, hipsters do, like the Cox repair guy who arrived three hours earlier than he was supposed to to fix a messed up internet connection. Keith, who introduced himself with a handshake, was a cool, techie guy, in his 20s. Patient too. When he accompanied me into the garage to hunt down missing equipment he volunteered to install to help out us tech-clueless Golden Girls, we opened a storage bin and instead discovered stacks of records spanning three decades.
“That’s ‘Captain Fantastic’ ’’ he said, his face lighting up. “Is it OK if I look at it?”
“Why not?”
It was as if he’d discovered The Ten Commandments from “Raiders of the Lost Ark”.
“Can I open it?” It must have been 40 years since I listened to the album, much less thought of it.
“Of course!”
The cartoonish, double truck album was in remarkable, almost brand new, condition.
“This is so cool,” he said, grinning. “I really like Elton John.”
Me too.
Spontaneously, like out of a TV commercial, Keith and I dueted the album’s cover song, “Captain Fantastic, raised and regimented, hardly a hero …”
Honestly, it was a moment. This stranger and I, decades apart, bonding over a collection of forgotten songs.
“If you ever want to sell it, here’s my number,” he said, using the back of a Restoration Hardware fabric swap to pen his cell number.
When Keith left, I cued up the album on my iPhone and proceeded to sing the rest of the song.
“We’ve thrown in the towel too many times, out for the count and when we’re down, Captain Fantastic and the brown dirt cowboy, from the end of the world to your town.”
I looked up the album’s release date: 1975, the year everything in my life changed.
I’m not sure why this encounter with the Cox repair guy came to mind just now as I breathe-in the salt air on the first day of what is now my annual 2.5-month Fall sojourn, but it surfaced like the island of kelp blooming atop the calm sea.
Perhaps re-discovering “Captain”, an album I stopped listening to when life as an adult got messy, was a reminder to delight in what once delighted me when my canvas was wide open.
I have to confess, life’s been rather hard of late. But I’m here now, basking in the sun, with a forever ocean view, at the beginning, my launch, my reset, my reboot, sitting on a cliff, a place where dreams, even at 68, are possible, where the only items penciled on my To Do list are things I want to do like; walk, eat healthy, pray, write, read, create art, take a nap, make a new friend, visit an old one, be in Nature and drink the loveliest of wines.
Sitting here by my not-so-lonesome self, I’m grateful for all the cracks and chips, scratches and my dopey willingness to repeat the soundtrack that once inspired me, even if I’m off-key, even if I’m not the best at memorizing lyrics but am just silly enough to dance beneath the Perseid meteor showers because, why not?
I’m dubbing this year’s 2024 sojourn The Finding Joy—-Again—- Tour. It appears I’m not the only one ready to get down and boogie. Crank up tunes that make you happy. Here’s one of my favorites. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gM4Xm2MGLNQ
What are the tunes that make you feel joyful? Please share them so we can add them to our playlist. 💚🎶
Philadelphia Freedom
By Bernie Taupin and Elton John
I used to be a rolling stone, you know
If a cause was right
I’d leave, to find the answer on the road
I used to be a heart beatin’ for someone
But the times have changed
The less I say, the more my work gets done
‘Cause I live and breathe this Philadelphia freedom
From the day that I was born, I’ve waved the flag
Philadelphia freedom took me knee-high to a man, yeah
Gave me peace of mind my daddy never had
Oh, Philadelphia freedom
Shine on me, I love ya
Shine a light through the eyes of the ones left behind
Shine a light, shine the light
Shine the light, won’t you shine the light?
Philadelphia freedom, I love ya
Yes, I do
If you choose to you can live your life alone
Some people choose the city (some people choose the city)
Some others choose the good old family home
(Some others choose the good old family home)
I like living easy without family ties (’cause it’s easy)
‘Til the whip or will of freedom zapped me, right between the eyes
‘Cause I live and breathe this Philadelphia freedom
From the day that I was born, I’ve waved the flag
Philadelphia freedom took me knee-high to a man, mmh-mmh
Gave me peace of mind my daddy never had
Oh, Philadelphia freedom
Shine on me, I love ya
Shine a light through the eyes of the ones left behind
Shine a light, shine the light
Shine the light, won’t you shine the light?
Philadelphia freedom, I love ya
Yes, I do
Oh, Philadelphia freedom
Shine on me, I love ya
Shine a light through the eyes of the ones left behind, mmh
Shine a light, shine the light
Shine the light, won’t you shine the light?
Philadelphia freedom, I love ya
You know, I love you, yeah
You know, I love you
Yes, I do! (Philadelphia freedom)
I love you, yes I do!
(Philadelphia freedom) you know that I love you
Yes, I do! (Philadelphia) oh (freedom)
Don’t you know that I love you?
Yes, I do! (Philadelphia freedom)
Don’t you know that I love you?
Yes, I do! (Philadelphia) oh, oh (freedom)
Don’t you know that I love you?
In “enemy” territory
Note: This was written prior to the assassination attempt on former President Trump.
OK, OK, OK, I’m going to write about our Fourth of July in OK, an in-process family reunion and what it’s like being embedded in Trumpland, Texoma, Oklahoma.
Let’s start with environment: I’ve never been to Texas where my nephew and his family live or Oklahoma where they have an epically fun, gigantic warehouse-sized house by the lake. Everyone, as in everyone here boats, jet- and water-skies, golf-carts, ignites professional-grade fireworks with no fear of injury or starting a fire, enjoys more than a drink or two, blasts country music, sets up gazebos in the water, wears red, white and blue attire—not just on the Fourth of July—and proudly regals their assortment of vessels with Trump flags and merch, one of the weirdest being an inflatable Trump tube with victory fingers, red-faced and orange hair-sprayed. The Texoma kids hurled themselves onto Trump’s plastic likeness and careened down a gnarly water slide that residents carved into a sloping hill.
While their ethnic identity—didn’t see one non-white person—and political allegiance was obvious, I wondered if they suspected that most members of our family were “the enemy”, the ones characterized by Donald Trump as being against border security and encouraging the homeless to propagate city streets? I had a sense they could tell we were “outsiders” by the way we dressed, interacted with each other, and asked a bearded, Trump-T-shirted boater to kindly leave space along the shore for our returning vessel.
“We’re ain’t moving,” the Trump supporter responded.
Harsh, but maybe there was a reason.
“We gotta anchor or the boat will float out there,” he said, pointing to the center of the lake.
OK, makes sense. Self preservation.
Later, when he saw my nephew’s boat approaching, Party Dad changed his mind and allowed our boat to dock next to his. Acknowledging his change of heart, I put my hands together and thanked him, to which he returned a smile.
Fact is, no one, not even Party Dad/Anchorman, was outright mean, rude or acted us vs. them-ish. Still, it felt weird being surrounded by a cult of Americans we thought we had nothing in common with.
Like us “liberals” from the West and East coasts—which I had to explain to my Republican, Trump-supporter nephew and host of our gathering, is not an accurate label—this Celebration of America weekend was an opportunity for everyone to enjoy quality family time.
“I’m incredibly conservative in many areas,” I explained to my nephew. Criminals should be punished. Borders should be secure, and immigrants vetted. Homeless people need to get off the streets and into shelters. Taxes need to be lower and the rich need to pay their fair share.
And I bet we have other commonalities, I added, like access to healthcare to ensure the well-being of fellow Americans, excellent public education, healthy food choices, well-paying jobs, decent housing, transportation, and freedom of speech.
Yep, he said, agreed upon values.
Indeed, I continued, we have genuine differences, but don’t you think our differences, whether it’s gun control and abortion or human rights and climate change, are an opportunity to build conversations rather than walls?
Now there’s an idea. Compromise. Mediation. Diplomacy. Kindness. Mutual respect. Classy vs. crassy, as I tell my grandsons.
TV, social media, heated debates around the pool table—-our kids are watching and listening, learning from adults how to behave, how to respond, how to talk to those we don’t agree with.
Unlike marital conflicts, divorce really isn’t an option. We are Americans, for goodness sake, part of the same family. I can’t help but wonder, Who the hell did this to us? Demonize, create a civil war? And why, in God’s name, did we allow it? We drank the Koolaid, trusted false rhetoric about one group being superior to the other.
Sound historically, and terrifingly, familiar?
Why can’t we be more like the 7-year-old boy who jumped off his Texans for Trump-flagged boat to join me and my 2-year-old grandson on the shore?
“Can I play?” he asked.
The little boy, who is Caucasian, and my grandson, who is half Chinese, dug holes and played dump truck all the while swapping sweet smiles and staccato snippets of wisdom.
“Like this,” the boy said, showing Hudson how to add water to the hole. Hudson tried, but his little hands were too small to contain much water.
“I have an idea,” Hudson said, taking his dump truck to the water, filling it up, then pouring it into the older boy’s well.
You should have seen their dimpled grins, like Thomas Edison discovering electricity.
“I did it!” Hudson proclaimed.
“Great job!” agreed his new friend.
I think that’s where we start. By sharing our core, our values, by being good neighbors, by not ripping down “the other” to uplift our own agenda. Listen. Infiltrate, like us Coasters did at our reunion in Texas/Oklahoma. Discover, as President Barack Obama often said, commonalities rather than differences.
For a long weekend, our family did just that. Bonded by love, we opened our hearts and discovered that those with whom we politically disagree with are, in fact, an awful lot like us.
Post 50th High School Reunion Reflection
This time yesterday.
It does and it doesn’t feel like yesterday. Mostly, it doesn’t because 50 years—half a frickn’ century—have lapsed between the day we ceremoniously ribboned down the metaphoric path from the Boys’ Gym toward Sea Hawk Stadium where, upon the conclusion of our high school graduation, confettied the sky with hopes, dreams, and promises to make our wounded world a better place.
That happened yesterday (actually, a month ago, but I haven’t had a moment or internet connection to post this entry), to the Class of 2024, my former 8th grade English Language Arts students, the second-to-the-last class I had before I retired. High school graduates, they are, 97% of whom pledging to attend two and four-year higher education institutions. One of my beautiful former students sang “The Star Bangled Banner” more soulfully than I’ve ever heard the anthem sung before. Maybe it was because I knew her, loved her, witnessed her journey, her grace and talent and the many gifts she’ll share with the world.
What will she become?
What did I become?
A huge life awaits my former student and her peers, while a shrinking landscape is certain for the Class of 1974.
Profound doesn’t even begin to explain what it felt like to be reunited with high school classmates, some of whom were my buddy-buddies, while the majority were casual accountancies. Good people we were then and now, jokingly admitting that if we passed each other on the street today we wouldn’t recognize each other. Old people, we joked, are like babies who morph and change at meteoric speed, only they—we—are at the opposite end of the spectrum. We’re the same, but different in the best possible way because we endured, thrived and survived.
No denying the fact that our physical appearance is drastically different from the black and white images depicted in our high school yearbook. But beneath our present-day cataracted, bespectacled eyes, glistened the same hope and love we’ve always had for each other. Sea Hawks Forever, our friendships framed by the turbulent times that defined our world view: the end of the Vietnam War, POWs, Watergate, Nixon, the lingering trauma of the Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assignations. Many of us were inspired and empowered to roll up our sleeves and positively contribute to our bruised nation and pursued public service careers ranging from the law and medicine to education and entrepreneurial ventures. Many of us, it seems, have lived good, full lives and are enjoying retirement in states away from the South Bay: Oregon, Washington, Georgia, New Mexico, Hawaii and beyond are now our homes, so returning to the South Bay, seeing old friends, the congestion of our burgeoning former city, was sentimental and jarring, provoking deep reflection and conversations about ailing spouses, paths taken and untaken, upcoming surgeries, travel, grandchildren and memories of what it was like going to school at Redondo Union High School in the 1970s.
50 years ago.
It doesn’t seem like yesterday. And no, I wouldn’t want to go back and re-live the life I’ve had. High school had its place. It was fun. It was hard. It was fake and real and cliquey and rich. All those snapshots. All those memories trapped in dusty boxes in even dustier storage units, for a day, taken out and appreciated. Those were, in retrospect, sunny days. Not all of them, but most. We had our first boyfriend and girlfriend. We learned how to succeed and fail. We held on to true friendships our entire lives. We never forgot the teachers who never gave up on us, those dedicated souls who saw in us what we couldn’t see in ourselves. They’re forever part of the story of our souls, something only we, the Class of ’74, can understand and appreciate.
While my storage unit shrinks to compensate for rising rent rates, I still struggle with dumping what remains of my high school memorabilia because the yellowed photos, newspaper clips and assorted trinkets represent an innocent time, something those of us who attended (and others who wished they could) collectively felt at our 50-year class reunion. For once we left Sea Hawk Stadium a half a century ago, once we laundered and returned those borrowed graduation gowns, our lives diverged and we entered the outer space of life, the woulda, shoulda, coulda, left turn instead of right, tumbling down the mountain, hiking to the top, years that were exactly as we dreamed of and nothing of the sort. We made mistakes, recovered. We took the road less taken and enjoyed, and sometimes regretted, the well-worn path. Some of us remained friends, while most set sail like the seeds of a dandelion spinning into the mist.
But for a day, the watercolor skies morphed from grey to ocean blue and we, The RUHS Class of 1974, floated in a cloud of gratitude as we applauded the new grads, and ourselves for showing up.
Fifty years ago we were they.
All the pre-reunion anxiety, judgment-worry, hair appointments, plastic surgery I never had (but thought A LOT about getting), weight I never lost, new clothes I didn’t buy—all the jitters we all apparently ALL had—made attending our half century rite of passage worth it.
We made it. We got to the other side. Not a claim all of us, unfortunately, could make. Not Cathy, Armando, Wynn, and a few weeks ago, Claire, who left the planet far too soon. God bless them, and all of us, as we journey on, grateful for friendships lost, and found.
But today, it is.
Moss hangs from a sea of aged oak trees, dancing in the wind outside my friends’ forest-shrouded home in Atascadero, California. I’m residing here for a weekish, babysitting their two precious mini dachshunds as their mum and dad vacation in Kauai. Their original dog sitter had to cancel due to a medical emergency and I, luster of puppy-hugs, was more than happy to pinch hit.
My friends’ official Happy Place is birthday-partied with room after room of stories collected over a lifetime of antiquing, garage-sale-ing and specialty website-shopping. Everywhere you turn, be it a wall of glistening Pryex or throne of globes or 1960s-era toy kitchen appliances or cupboards of colorful dishes or shelves of faded and vibrant photos of family members here and afar, reside tales of meaning and origin. My friends’ passion for collecting reminds me of my other friends who live in Fullerton, afficionados of Americana treasures and museum-quality baseball memorabilia. Both long-wedded couples have a keen eye for spotting the unusual and are particularly gifted at displaying their treasures in ways that honor history and their personalities.
Dachies Rosie, Olive, and my guest-self, are chillin’ on the shaded deck, listening to the chimes and spa music I have playing in the kitchen next to my traveling lavender aromatherapy mister. Like the lizards scurrying along the planks, we’re also doing our best to absorb patches of sun on this rather chilly, 61-degree day. Such a vastly different setting from where I was a week ago—Epcot, Orlando, 96 degrees with 90% humidity. This time last week, my brother had yet to fall and was little-boyishly scooting from land to land, somehow ignoring his chronic back and shoulder pain. I don’t know how he does it, but I guess, in this way, he’s much like our dad; he doesn’t want to get cheated out of the Next Adventure.
Man, I think, if he can do it, so can I. No excuses. And thus, my first visit to Florida and my brief residency here at my friends’ cozy Central Coast retreat.
While you can, while you can, do it while you can. The Wise tell me this all the time. The fatalistic notion is daunting, that one day I’m cursed to be sick and/or disabled. I understand that the body changes as we age. But is physical and mental decline a certainty? What if I’m an exception? What if I manage to avoid the decline? Keep my back straight? Gaze at the stars with light and an impish grin? Continue to be the person I am right now? Beneath the wrinkles and other signs of aging, remain six years old times six decades plus eight?
“They” must know something I don’t. So I abide by their mantra: Live BIG before the unexpected happens.
Which brings me, crazily, to Real Estate, a topic chronically on my mind thanks to pesky Redfin updates. Should I or shouldn’t I? Invest? Continue to flutter? Ownership—at my age—is silly, yet reasonable. Yet, even thinking about going to an Open House and securing a Realtor—then spending BIG money—gets me nervous, like it’s not the right time or I literally have NO TIME. From now until December, I’ll be on the road. And yet, and yet, and yet, being here at my friends’ home, embraced by a life’s worth of souvenirs, feels comforting, secure.
Such an interesting phase I’m in, feeling temporary and permanent at the same time. Attached. Detached.
The wind just stopped. It’s river cruise-still as a blue jay lands on the balcony rail and the fattest squirrel I’ve ever seen leaps from limb to limb. Such a marvel. All of it. When you stop. Listen. Scan the wooded horizon, feel the chill as your body and mind adapt to this new, familiar place where you, just a month ago, shared a margarita with your friend, who’s now in Hawaii sipping an Aloha-inspired boozy drink with her family as she sheds the responsibilities of day-to-day life.
Texts, updates, reminders, new car deals, TV “news”, grocery prices, holiday-inflated gas prices, politics, and all the stuff that strips our thoughts and days of this—BLISS—the word etched on a ceramic mug my friend gifted me during our last visit, are bliss-wasters. “You’re living it,” she reminded me, “your bliss.”
“Oh, yeh,” I responded, having never—as in ever—linked this state of being with my life.
A five-hour drive away from my sister and cousin’s two-year Remodel Hell and Memorial Weekend challenge—The Unloading of The Pods—feels so strange. I was supposed to be there to help, instead I’m here, writing, creating art, listening to music, dancing, reading, playing with pups, eating healthy foods, taking a just-because nap, going for a walk, watching the rest of “The Bear”, cleaning out my van in preparation for June’s camping trip with the g-boys, having a second cup of coffee—in all ways, relaxing, floating. Bliss.
Mary Oliver, my go-to poet, summarized my frame of mind in her poem “On Death”:
“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”
Grateful. Loving Life—-all of it: The questions. The puzzles. The stuff. The no stuff. The tasks. Docking, setting up camp. Saying goodbye, hello. The darkness and the light. The lazy, misty mornings and the predicted sunny skies later this week. It’s not always going to be like this. I get it.
But today, it is.
My Big, Strong Brother
My big, strong brother woke me and his wife up this morning. 6 a.m. Florida time or as my body clock reminds me every time I fly to the East Coast, 3 a.m., but after two days gallivanting around the Magic Kingdom and Epcot from opening to closing time, it feels like I’ve had barely any sleep at all.
All is good with me, thanks for caring, I’m having lots of fun in the Orange State’s humidity and mid-90s temps, enjoying Disney’s expansive World for the first time with my sister, brother, cousin, sister-in-law and her brother. My favorite things so far have been two of the most inspiring fireworks shows I’ve ever seen—yes, I got teary-eyed—and Tron, a speedy, exhilarating motorcycle ride my sister and I rode three times and it still wasn’t enough!
I’m in Florida, a state I vowed I’d never financially contribute to due to the current governor’s abhorrent mandates, because my brother invited us to share his three-room vacation rental. Being here, I admittedly sold my soul and reversed my boo-Sunshine State stance because it’s a rare opportunity to be with kin and, well, time is short.
Florida, by the way, has been terrific, people-wise. We have yet to meet someone who isn’t kind and especially helpful. Yesterday, on our way out of Epcot, a very tanned older woman who had a Today’s My Birthday button, just like me, even volunteered when told where we lived, “I love California!” Not a lot of that sentiment going on these days. Politics can really get in the way and pollute our perception of each other.
Which brings me back to my brother.
This morning I bolted up to horrific cries of help from our adjoining suite. My brother sounded like an injured animal maimed and lying for dead on the side of the road. As the rest of the family slept, his wife and I ran to his aide. He had fallen in the bathroom and was trapped between the toilet and the wall. He’s had many falls like this and as a result spends most of the time in a wheelchair. My big, strong brother. Trapped. Helpless. His face frightened like a sunken-eyed bleached ghost.
It took a while, but eventually we were able to get him up and back into the wheelchair where he hunched over in agony as a FOX News anchor droned on about Biden’s many flaws and Trump’s exceptional attributes.
My brother exclusively watches conservative TV “news”. His rigid opinion about most everything political caused a lifelong Grand Canyon-sized gap between us. Throughout my life, he’s the one who’s been “right” while everyone else is a liberal dope. There was never a grey in-between. But in the end, it doesn’t matter, none of it. Politics, the past, assets, the next vacation, global warming, organic vs. pesticide-grown veggies, grey hair, pink hair, rainbows or hard hats. What mattered when my brother wailed for help was being there for him and my sister-in-law, doing what I could to respond to the situation, being calm, being positive, and supporting this profoundly wounded big, strong brother in whatever way I could.
That’s why I’m in Florida, the only reason, to be with my brother who’s in constant, chronic pain; I have no idea how he copes. I suppose, like our dad, it’s hope, it’s planning vacations like this, it’s yearning for forgiveness, acceptance and peace that travel provides him with. Escape. Another view from a different window.
But no one ever does. Escape, that is. Not here in the Magic Kingdom, not in the lush forests of Oregon, not in the bottom of a bottle of which there is never enough to numb the pain that consumes some of us.
The lightness of being. This expression comes to me often. Sitting on the cold and not especially clean bathroom tile as the crew sleeps and I try to be quiet, I realize I can’t solve The Problem. I’m not a Healer. I can’t surgically remove the scars, the prior bone breaks and bruises acquired over the years. But I can be light. I can look up, thank God, relax my face, my shoulders, my grip, smile, then scream with exhilaration like I did riding that Tron ride at Walt Disney’s magical kingdom. I let go. I let go of the tension, the fear, and became one with the ride instead of digging in my heals and resisting the ups and downs, swerves, and curves.
Whatever the rest of this day brings, be it a ride down the resort’s lazy river, the predicted 96 degree temps, a trip to Disney Springs, it’ll all be good. Because we’ll be together. An impossibility, not that long ago, as I held tight to past wounds.
Honestly, it’s kind of a miracle how good it feels to let go of the anger and fear I once felt whenever I was in the presence of my older sibling. If only I had noticed all those years ago, that it was my big, strong brother who was the most wounded one. I was an innocent victim in his war. Knowing that, might have prevented me from a lifetime of self-doubt. Then again, I wouldn’t be the person I am without the scars.
What I know for sure is that while the past can’t be changed, I can literally enjoy the ride, the people, and be present, focused, on the Light that illuminates the cracks, the veneer, and the Epcot Garden and Flower Show called Life.
Except for my tapping keyboard, all is final quiet here in the condo. My brother is resting, my coffee is cold and outside the darkened curtains the blazing sun beckons me to rent an orange innertube and float my cares away or as the Disney tune goes, “Just around the river bend…beyond the shore, somewhere past the sea.”
This Life of Mine
The Last Breakfast. The Last Sunset. The Last Frog-choral Midnight Concert. The Last Dinner with Friends. The Last Patch of Starry Quietude before heading south toward family and the past.
“You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner, on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed empty, but wasn’t,” writes Mary Oliver in her poem, “Flare”.
She says it so well.
The home I grew up in on Spreckles Lane, the two-wheeler romps, the blue-lit silver Christmas tree-illuminated living room Mom and Dad danced to the polka beat of Myron Floren and the Lawrence Welk Band; my British parents laughing, forever in love, spinning, twirling, the memories, still alive and as vivid as if I were still six years old. Which I am, multiplied by a lot of decades.
My Angel Cove Cottage By-the-Sea, my maroon heartbeat and heartbreak that embraced my nuclear family until the day I drove away two years ago this coming August is still me.
The two careers I worked so hard at, journalism and teaching, neglecting family and personal time for the sake of others, are still me.
Beloved family members, our sweet pups, cats, fish, rabbits, and fowl, gone. Still part of me.
In a couple of hours, this three-week Spring Fling Camping Trip will be taped into my bulging scrapbook. Leaving, saying goodbye, always—always—leaves me melancholy.
“Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.
I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.”
What is to be made of all this change and sequence and Life’s non-sequiturs? Grandchildren transforming into teenagers, an approaching 50-year high school reunion, the shutting down of favorite haunts—bookstores, a winery, a funky shop that once sold my favorite Bonnie Doon lavender essential oil, an out-of-the-blue knee injury, weight super-glued to my belly, grey, then azure blue, coastal skies, flashbacks and flashbacks and flashbacks of times and people that both crushed and opened my soul, a bird dancing between the sun and clouds, gobbling gnats then sea plane-landing on my plastic camp rug, waiting for treats and a friendly chat.
“Hey, little buddy, how’s it going?” I ask, as Ms. Bird hops closer. “Brave little gal.”
Be careful, you say, ”Didn’t you hear? Some kind of bird virus is on the rise.”
“I had no idea.” I’ve been out of touch, no reception.
It’s all ridiculously confusing and sad and uplifting and gratifying and peaceful and glaring and subtle and obnoxiously, deliciously, loud.
This life of mine.
This last half hour of yesterday. To be aware, this time, is about to end.
Next time, it will be different. I guess that’s what gets to me. The leaves, the grass, the air, the people, won’t be the same as they are now, this most excellent, sun-drenched day. I guess I agree with “Yellowstone’s” Governor John Dutton on this one: At what cost is “progress” if moving forward means destruction, stepping on someone else’s rights, imagination, creativity, shutting down conversation, compromise, our wounded environment? I can’t see myself eagerly awaiting, much less applauding, what’s next. It makes me want to shut down, run away, be grateful that I’m no longer in the fray.
By fray, I’m referring to several things: In a month, when summer hits, these campgrounds, this land, will be trampled on and littered with trash. It won’t be fresh, new, people-less as it is now. Then there’s my English Language Arts colleagues back at the middle school I used to teach at; the school district is imposing an overwhelmingly rejected robotic, scripted curriculum. That, along with a schedule change the staff has voted repeatedly against, is the kind of fray that makes me want to roll up my sleeves and fight back. But I’ve been retired three years this June, retired to The Next Chapter. It’s no longer my fight, yet it’s hard not to care and want to make things better for those who work so hard to educate children.
But who am I? Yesterday’s news.
“Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.
Yet the moth has trim and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.
Not in this world.”
When I return, when I move on, when I get on the teeth-grinding 405 Freeway jammed with buzzing crows and hawks and hummingbirds, I will turn on Enya’s Greatest Hits and think of the stars and the surf that cleansed my spirit, grateful that I’ve been baptized and forgiven. Renewed, until I’m renewed once more.
“Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.
A lifetime isn’t long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.
Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.”
Time to pack up, get in the van, pour a second cup of coffee, and crank up the tunes. Another exuberant adventure awaits.
“In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.
Live with the beetle, and the wind.”
This crazy, ever-leaving, ever-discovering, ever unfolding trip is, indeed, a trip, or as my ex-husband used to say, “A trip down Whittier Boulevard.”
Figuring It Out
I’m at the campground, sans reception, sans discussion, conversation, YouTube, “Los Angeles Times”, CNN, here by my lonesome, figuring it out by-my-lonesome, not-so-lonesome self.
67, close to 68, in the sun, in the gale force winds, in the yesterday afternoon’s Vineyard Drive Brecon Wine Club pick up party, Life IZ Good, aura.
No reception.
Do you understand what that means? Actually? I actually have to make an effort, get in my apartment-on-wheels, pack-up/secure camp stuff, get in the van, drive to the Library, log in, wait, and wait and wait, and voila, can send a voice mail, post recent blog entry, connect with My Other Life.
It’s crazy how we take access to the Internet, being pertinent, for granted. We expect snap-at-your-fingertips service. And when we don’t have it, we get all edgy.
But I’m kinda digging it.
I love checking out, not being available, not relevant, disappearing from the world. It’s like floating on a raft, in the sun, in the tropical breezes, cruising and being A-Okay.
What did you do today? someone from the “outside” will ask.
I read.
I thought about taking a nap.
I dreaded going to town, but I did, so I can share life in the not-so-big-city with you.
So you know.
That I’m OK.
I’m more than OK.
Which is so strange. Because I used to be such a social creature and now, I’m a sedentary human-woman completely content being neutral.
Yesterday, there were gale force winds where I’m residing. The pass, Highway 41, experienced wind gusts up to 30 mph. I worried and worried, planned and planned, fearing my tall Sprinter would fall into the valley on my way “home” to the beach valley where I’ll continue to reside for a few more days.
Let me set the stage: The sun is out. The wind is windy. I’m in the shade. I’m typing on my MacBook Pro. I’ve had a quarter of the sparkling wine sitting in my van’s fridge from a week ago, listening to some kind of accordion, mariachi-type music from a group of vintage Airstream campers a couple of sites away.
Did you know people have friends? People my age and younger socialize, have fun, party? They hang out, drink, play some kind of rollicking, celebrating, group-socializing tossing games together. Hippish. Complimentary. Positive. Yummy food wafting gloriousness. Biking. Celebrating, did I say celebrating?
And then there’s me. Breakfast-still-full, despite the loads of groceries I have in Miss Bonnie Doon, my absolutely amazing, favorite child apartment-on-wheels. She loves me no matter what, and vice versa. She’s a bit bug-dirty right now, but stands tall, a vision to be admired as I figure things out.
Sewer Talk.
Let me get real, as in shit real.
Perhaps the main reason I resisted getting a Class B RV, besides the ridiculous cost, was the damn black tank. Yucky. Yucky. Yucky. But after a year dumping my shit into black holes of grossness, what used to gross me out no longer does.
Shit, besides being shit, is also a metaphor.
Case in point:
Yesterday, on my way home in the gale force winds along Highway 41, somewhere along the way, my sewer hose fell off. I heard a rattling, but figured it was a gust of scary wind rattling something outside the van. I confess, I was a wee bit tipsy given the wine club pick-up party. But I was responsiblish. I waited two hours after the tasting, drank lots of water, and was prepared to pull over if I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. There was no swerving, no, I’m not safe feeling. I would NEVER get behind the wheel if I felt for a second it was dangerous To make sure I was sober, I took a breathalyzer-type test I ordered from Amazon proving I was good to go.
I waited-out the wind, driving across the pass about 7:30 p.m. when it looked like the winds had died down, and when I arrived at the campground the sun had set and I was excited about finishing “Schitt’s Creek” so I could return the DVD set to the Library on Saturday. But the rattling. The rattling. When I got to my campsite, I jumped outside and looked at the sewer caps, which were off, dragging, apparently, along the highway. Somewhere along the line, my hose fell off. But not the cap.
The couple I bought my van from had extra hoses, which was fantastic. But the cap that came off, couldn’t be secured. Rather than resorting to duct tape to hold it in place, I decided to decipher what the actual problem was. After about 30 minutes trying various methods to secure the cap in place, I eventually figured it out.
When the cap scraped along the highway, it gouged out the rim. It was subtle, but just enough damage was caused that it re-shaped the cap making it impossible to fit into the original fitting.
My instinct was, “Help someone!”
Instead, I channeled my favorite handiman and uttered in my cloud thought bubble, “What would Ken do?”
After a few minutes I realized I needed some sort of a grinder, which I’d have to buy at the local hardware store. But instead, I channeled my cave woman instincts, found a rough rock, and ground out the rough groove. Voila! The cap now fits!
You should have seen me, being at one with the very same sewer system I once dreaded. On the pavement, looking into the sewage abyss. I was at one with the shit hole.
I can’t tell you my delight: I’m figuring it out. It’s thrilling. And it’s stinky. And I wish it was easier. Yet, the struggle is real and important because it gets me to a place of knowledge and acceptance, exuberance, and peace.
Shit happens. And senior citizen camper woman is figuring it out.
Did I tell you…?
Did I tell you, I’m working on a novel? I started it more than a year ago, but somehow, in my travels and wonky internet connections, lost the first five chapters. Which was a major bummer. So I ignored it, knowing I couldn’t recreate what was lost, then realized that that loss was actually a metaphor, and besides, it probably wasn’t very good anyway, and it was most likely a sign that I needed to start over, which I’ve done, which I’m excited about, even though I’m in over my head.
I’m not a novelist.
I’m a person who has been writing since the third grade, telling stories, listening to stories, placing myself into stories, thinking, being imaginative, being realistic, and now being open to trying a new kind of writing, fiction.
This blog, this kind of letter writing to strangers and friends, is where I get my truth-telling instincts out of my system so I can hang glide and allow my alter ego character to fly. Which is hard, frankly, because Lizzy Johnson has the power to do anything in the world, anything she can dream of or dread, and that letting go is, well, different for this almost 68-year-old—-ouch—-on-the-road cowgirl writer.
When you give yourself the time, space, and permission to imagine, a trait typically delegated to the young, it is a wild experience. You can be anything, ANYTHING, you can imagine, and you don’t just have to be a writer to experience it.
You could be a chef, a dancer, painter, gardener, tourist, mechanic, seamstress, tarot card-reading gypsy—whatever your heart longs to dabble in, and not have to worry about turning it into a career. You can play around with it, have fun, and when it’s no longer fun, drop it for the time being or forever.
Why didn’t I know this, do this, when I was working? I poured so much of my time and life into my career, home, family, marriage, that I forgot to serve myself.
I suppose it’s what one does during certain phases of life and now that I’m in this phase, which, as I told my buddy, Julie, a couple of days ago, is the very best time of my life; I’m more reflective, more open, more relaxed, a better version of myself.
I wish this for you, daughters and son, family and friends. I wish you the lightness of being.
The sun is finally showing her face here as I sit in a quiet corner of one of my favorite haunts in Cambria, the sweet public library on Main Street. The padded silence is comforting. Surrounded by books—-my latest read is a collection of short stories by Alice Munro—-is both daunting and reassuring. Master writers, and then there’s me. But that’s that courage thing I was talking about. Jumping. Frolicking. Playing in the foamy waves. Getting cold and wet and salty and sandy is good for the soul.
It’s uplifting.
Uplifting.
Which is the point. To step up, take action, experiment, and like I said, have fun in the process.
Writing a novel in my late 60s is a kick. It makes me laugh, and sometimes, cry. It stirs up emotions and a direction I sometimes don’t want to take. But I do. I’m sticking with it because I can’t wait to see how it turns out. I don’t need it to be a best-seller or even be published, although it’d be nice to share it with others at some point. The great thing about writing a novel at my age is that no one but me is counting on me to finish it.
A cowboy on a horse just road by. Guess it’s my signal to get back to novelizing. I want to know where he’s headed.
You know, it’s greener, lusher, more vibrant, than I have ever seen the hillsides in all my travels to the Central Coast. It is also quiet, at least midweek. Only us few retirees and homeschoolers hangout at the campground—-and a group of solo women campers who befriended me. Last night, we sat around the campfire and swapped stories about adventures lived and travels to come. Kindred spirits with a spark in their eyes that suggests the road ahead is promising.
It was pretty cool. I have new friends who are part of a women’s vanlife group, one of many groups formed by women my age. Their stories are like mine; women who decided it was finally time to prioritize their dreams. We’re part of a movement. In the shadows. Quiet, vital, creative, and highly intelligent women who did what we were “supposed” to do, followed the rules of our generation—raised children, had a career, husband, family, organized a household, made an impact on society in a variety of ways—and now as grandmas, have decided we need extended “me time” to regenerate and re-define ourselves.
The old journalist in me says there’s a story here.
And maybe there is.
LifeIZGood.com 