A Tribute

The County-Jerry and Rex (year unknown)

Travelinma is 10 years old today.  Ten years ago, my friend Jeff Kirlin encouraged me to begin a photoblog.  He had started one and was having lots of fun.  Having just returned to Maine following my first trip to Costa Rica, I had a slew of really great shots. Exotic location plus perfect lighting equals engaging photography, right?  So, on May 7, 2007 I posted a guest photo of a questzal taken with my camera (Panasonic-pocket type) by Ricardo the guide that led us into the Rain Forest on a search for the bird and other creatures that showed up like a sloth.

I had thought of myself as a writer until sometime in high school when the
English teacher marred by piece with a red pen. He offered little encouragement and frankly, I was a bit angry and discouraged. My image of myself as a writer was tentative. In college, my professor Jay Hoar who was a Civil War buff and writer helped me as we wrote volumes and read and read. When my twins were two, Jerry supported me in applying to Stonecoast Writing Retreat.  Lasting a week or two, that experience changed my life.  At that point, I hadn't done much writing beyond professional pieces like IEP and Assessment Reports as part of my teaching job until my youngest brood could fend for themselves.  Again encouragement from a friend Lynn Bonsey led me to the Maine Writer's and Publishers Alliance and my mentor, Susan Hand-Shetterly.  Without nudges, Travelinma would not exist as it is today.

For a long time, I continued to photograph my life, but the desire to marry image and words gnawed at they thirst to express myself in ways beyond photography.  Travelinma chronicles family-in good times and in challenging moments.  Travelinma seeks answers.  Travelinma shows the evolution of a woman who rediscovers herself with every new day.  Travelinma supports those dealing with loss.  Travelinma shows the frailty and the uncertainty of life, as well as the possibilities.  Travelinma records love.

Travelinma is likely to outlive me. Just think of that! Depending upon the technological format that my grandchildren will encounter, it is possible that they will learn about their grandparents and their aunts and uncles living during this time.  On that day in May a decade ago, never did I imagine that a blog, my blog would mean so much.

Happy 10th birthday to my creation, Travelinma.

Preparations for Yet Another

It seems to have happened overnight.  After days of dreary weather, the sun today gives respite from darkness and unending bone-chilling rain that makes the grass appear a vibrant green. Once it grows; it never stops.

My husband was a collector.  We have windows, if you are in need of any window of any shape and  size.  We have lawn mowers (at least I think).  Historically, he had an array of push mowers and ride-ons. Yet the shovels are not yet put away, leaning against the door, while my winter coats still hang on hooks throughout the house, just in case.  I just don't know if I have one working lawn mower. Thoughts of tackling this, just overwhelm me.  I am out of my territory. Meanwhile the grass grows at a furious rate after months of dormancy.

It has been decades since I have pushed a mower.  I am not sure how to start one.  It seems that my anxiety about another change of season and my first spring without my handy husband may have been alleviated had I planned ahead a little bit.  Yet, I need to give myself a break; after all I am carrying the load of two adults.  My schedule opens a bit this weekend.  I will walk the property checking for rocks and sticks that may catch in the mower, but not before I find at least one mower in working order and pray for dry weather.

Care

Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it matters.  As if the nourishment of your body in such a simple direct way matters...and it does.  All other wisdom about gathering happiness after loss rests in our ability to bring toward ourselves that which sustains us. Before we can thread together a life that rises in the presence of sorrow we must include loving ourselves through acts of care. When we do we can begin to experience the world as if love and hope and goodness do exist.- Maria Sirois from A Short Course in Happiness After Loss

After a weekend of staring grief in the face, my body is in revolt.  I stayed home from work, fearing that pieces of myself might break off in big hunks as I raced down the hall.  (Use your imagination, otherwise TMI!)  This morning, after some extra rest I  sipped warm water and lemon, drew a hot bath and then anointed my body with oil.  Slowing down moves me inward. This is what I need: Sit with my feelings of sadness and loss to move beyond it.  Sip miso broth and coconut water and seek help with my inner work-pray and meditate throughout the day.

Sirois says that happiness rests in our ability to bring to ourselves what sustains us.  This has continually been a question throughout my life. Nourishing myself spiritually and physically have been key. Specific answers come when I am quiet, open and mindful-trusting that intuitively what resonates is what I need.  This is my role in taking care of myself through my journey with grief and knowing that really despite all the love and kindness offered to me by others,  I must, in kind extend gentle love to myself.  I am enough.

Books Books and More Books

Piles of books teeter beside my chair where I watch the birds and sip my morning latte and then sit for afternoon tea.  More are beside my bed, while my shelves hold volumes.  Books are in my purse and in the car. It feels good to be able to read again, since my concentration has improved.  There was a time when I grew anxious about ever being able to read more than a Facebook post. For a short time I viewed myself as a fraud;I'm a reading teacher for goodness sakes who couldn't read more than a few sentences at a time. Thankfully, now I am reading and I am writing.  My concentration is improving. Relieved, I can authentically talk about my struggles with my students.  It gently reminds me just how much of the brain is robbed from chronic stress. I hope that this experience makes me a better teacher and human being.

Him

The escapes come often and frequently.  I sit in my wing back chair poised to watch a film.  The slab of chocolate and broken pieces lay on the opened wrapper, my toes touch the floor pointed, raising my knees to  intentionally cradle the contents in my lap.  Birthday chocolate. Precious cargo. These days, I avoid buying chocolate for myself because I have no control.

I guess you could say that we balanced each other out.  This wasn't always the perfect in paradise kind of love.  He loved to eat meat, while I prefer plant based proteins.  He liked the bedroom cold, while I preferred heat.  A soft hearted soul whose kids could talk him into just about anything, especially if it was adventurous and a bit risky, my husband was always full of surprises.  I, on the other hand am more practical and I'd like to think more controlled and logical.  An impulsive, fly by the seat of your pants kind of guy versus a planner, a list maker. We pretty much kept to our roles through over 36 years of marriage, until this summer.

My husband, Jerry never missed a day of work except a few days here and there during hospitalization or following surgery.  This summer, despite lingering unexplained fatigue and pain, he worked through it. Some days it took all of his will to get out of bed, but he made it to work.  In the late afternoon, he would drag himself to the bedroom and lay down.   This summer, work required all of him so by the time he got home, he was spent.

Nearly, everyday for three years, we played Parcheesi.  He was a competitor.  The captain of his football team, a state champion pole vaulter, my husband was tenacious.  These competitive tendencies worked to his benefit while playing board games, too.  Despite feeling rotten, most days this summer he played parcheesi.  He held a stash of Dove Chocolate in the freezer, in a yogurt container labeled, "Frozen Corn."  We were both as serious about our ration of chocolate, as we were about our game. Some nights it was hard to discern whether we played to play or we played to eat chocolate.  In unusual restraint, he allowed us two bits of candy. No more. Both of my candies were unwrapped and devoured before he took his first bite. I always begged for more.  "Can I have one more, please?  Please?  Just one?  Then no more, I promise."

In an unusual stance, he refused my request, " No, save it for later.  We each get two." He wasn't a guy that said no.

I looked at the board and thought about swiping off the smears of chocolate with a sponge after the game.  Seconds later, thinking he might relent. "Chocolate, please?"

Again, I heard, "No."  Strangely, the back and forth resembled an exchange with one of our teenagers.
Night after night played out in a similar fashion.  He held me to two pieces, despite my protests and attempts to wear him down.

Now, I sit in my wing back chair, shoving thick pieces of European chocolate into my mouth.  The first chunk barely melted in my mouth before I shove more in.  I have lost interest in the movie, and  I am not really aware of the quantity of chocolate I have consumed, that is until I look down in my lap and see there are two little pieces left.  Carefully the remaining pieces are wrapped and tucked away for another time.

Everything reminds me of him.  I eat.  I eat.  It does little to fill me up. Vignettes of our life, of him settle in my head replaying. I thought it was the chocolate, but really, I can't get enough...of him.

Grounded

On a warm day in early fall, I walked into a metal smithing studio.  I knew nothing.  It was like stepping into a foreign land with strange-sounding tools, implements and labels for procedures with hammers and torches.  Even after six months, I  still approximate the language.

My teacher, my mentor reminds me that muscle memory has a lot to do with her ease in completing a job in mere two minutes, when after 45 minutes of struggle, I ask for help.  That being said, I have learned that I have not completely shed perfectionism.  If the muscles in my hands or fingers fatigue or the solder does not stick to the flux and falls off after 55 tries; I may just give up-frustrated.  I look for fast, speedy results.  This seldom happens in the studio.  Sometimes "gluing" metal pieces together with fire has disastrous results.

"Oh prongs are easy," my teacher said looking at a piece of fossilized coral.  That was weeks ago.  After tedious steps and having to take it apart several times with more filing, sanding and soldering; last night I was able to walk out of the studio with my first pronged piece on my finger.

Walking to my car it was dark.  I had no light.  With trusty Bean boots on my feet, I opted to venture through the muddy edge of driveway to my car.  This seemed the more sensible route rather than swim through the depths of puddles or slip on ice.  Nearing the road, I remembered that delicate shoots of green were popping up in the owner's garden at the corner of the driveway.  Last I knew they were submerged in water.  Despite the cold temperatures the mud still provided a slippery footing.  It was troubling when my left foot splashed in deep water. I was certain I was crushing plant life, someone's prized daffodils or something.  Quickly lifting my foot out of the puddle to save the flowers, I took a sharp turn away from the bed and found myself lying face down in the cold gravelly mud.  Realizing my left foot was stuck in the mud, I tried to release it hearing a sucking noise.  I got up quickly, but only as high as my knees when I was knocked to the ground again.  My left hand (the one with my ring) plunged into the cold, muddy dirt.  My bones could have shattered, but after all that work I was  concerned about my ring.  Once I was upright, I sloshed a few steps into the road and  lifted my left hand closer to my eyes.  It was too dark to see.   For the five minute drippy ride home I realized that there was not much I could do about my situation.   It is likely that my car is muddy.  It is also likely that my ring was crushed with the blow my left hand and wrist took to catch myself.  There is a lesson in everything.  The lesson here is patience, persistence and detachment.  It all became so very clear when I was grounded in the mud.

Free

Ever since I watched the Brene Brown TED talk on vulnerability, I have been more aware of the times when I feel guarded and instances when I exert control.  The essence of her talk is that one must be vulnerable in order to feel the full measure of emotions such as joy and love.

I have raised five teenagers.  There are three more to go.  Lately, the experience has been riddled with sadness, worry and frankly not a lot of joy.

Raising my first born, I held onto the image of perfection.  After all, I was raised on Leave it to Beaver, The Brady Bunch and the antics of the Huxtable family.  As a first time parent I learned so much about myself.  And even though decades have past since my son was a teenager, I continue to discover new things about myself through my role as a parent. Perhaps at times I cling to the notion of perfectionism.

Today during lunch I called a friend who I have not seen for a long time.  She is wholly accepting of me.  She knows more about me and the inner workings of my quirky brain than any other person.   I can sit on her couch and be totally transparent, without fear. There is mutual trust.  I daresay that I have not encountered this often in my life. In her presence I allow myself to be vulnerable.

Struggles with raising teenagers in this era, often cloud my vision of who I am.  Preferably, I would like to be a fully joyful parent, free of strife and anxiety; at least some of the time.   I look forward to seeing her tomorrow.   It is sure that  together we will laugh, cry and dream in a space of time where I can be accepting of who I am and make no apologies.  Totally vulnerable.  Free.

Balancing

These days we are all seeking comfort.  Early this morning as I crept down the hall, I noticed nestled in the crook of the tree just outside the window, a squirrel.  His torso hugged low to the tree, his front legs outstretched with his chin resting.  Peaceful, that is until moments after I noticed him; he sensed potential danger.  From the slumbering perch, he was ready to leap, ears twitching and it appeared he was trembling.  I watched him leap to a nearby tree trunk, pause and leap again.  The leaves quaked under his weight.  I turned and went about my day wondering if he was really ever fully at ease or in a state of comfort.  

Soon after the squirrel incident, I made my way through the house and outside to be near the birds and foliage.  The sun still in that in-between state of warmth and heat filled the backyard with light.  In this place, I find comfort.  Closing my eyes I say a prayer, notice my breath and then begin to draw.

Next door, I hear someone yelling commands in Spanish.  The John Deer is zipping through the small patch of green. Someone else revs up the grass trimmer, then a leaf blower.  The succession of noise assaults the quiet.  My comfort is disturbed.  Like the squirrel I must be ready for disturbances that may prick my state of calm.  Isn’t it all about strategizing a balance of inner peace and inner strength?  In this day, both are important.

Minutes

                                  This is how I chose to spend my precious moments this morning.

“You’re gonna be old in a shake of a lamb’s tail,” my oldest joked just last night. Maybe, he half joked.  My husband just reached the big 6-0 and I am not far behind. Young by today’s standards. I’m not whining, just coming to terms with the fact that time is precious, but I still spend time frivolously.

Not long ago, I was walking to St. Mary’s School early mornings and visiting my grandmother in the afternoons. She was always there waiting in the yellow apartment house with the long stretch of brick walkway shaded by the “claimed to be” oldest tree in Biddeford.  It was a chestnut that threw prickly seed pods.  

It seems not long ago, I spent days at the beach with my mother from the cool of early morning, through the hot hours and into the late afternoon when the beach was covered in shadow. We would trudge back to the car, our hair dripping and our skin tight and sandy from the sea and sand.  Not long ago, I hunched on the couch, my father and I yelling at the TV, urging the Red Sox to pull through in the ninth.  Not long ago.

Those were times of certainty.  I hadn’t a care that the minutes were being used up, I was  young with years before me.  I was certain that my grandmother would always meet me at her door with chocolate chip cookies and stories of her cross country trip or the 1964 World Fair in New York City. I was certain that my mother would always float with me in the salty Atlantic and barefooted walk the  beach that seemed to stretch on forever.  And one day, my father would surely witness the Red Sox busting through the curse that was said to withhold them from the glory of a World Series.  I was certain.

Precious minutes are not certain. They are gifts.  Spend them well.

Refuge

Loneliness magnifies sorrow

That things in life aren’t easier or just.

It is my dip into the disfunction

That compels me to seek refuge alone

Yet,

I am alone.

Loneliness magnifies

The sorrow

I carry with me always.

I seek refuge.

Waiting

Tonight the house is filled with
Just boys (and me)
Raiding the refrigerator.
Bowls piled with bananas, grapes, yogurt
The spoon a shovel.

I miss the smell of nail polish,
The ordering,
The tidying.
The questions
And the plans.

My girl is growing up,
Independent.
Persistent.
Herself.

She'll be back
Yearning for more
Adventures
And
Discovery.
It waits.

Wondrous and Mysterious

Ever-changing,
Life is arranged
In ways
Wondrous and mysterious.

This oxymoron
Keeps
Our attention.

logic be damned

I remember my mother crying three times.  Each instance my mother's heart broke over disagreements with people.  At all costs, I avoid disharmony, but it seems that my life is loaded with it lately.  I cry regularly.

"Are you going to the prom?" I asked my son.

"Nah," he replied looking out the window.

"Isn't your girlfriend a Senior?"

"She isn't my girlfriend, anymore," he offered pausing, "I guess...never really was.  She is going with some other guy."

I thought just like that.  Together on Friday.  Split by Monday. Together for months.

"How do you get used to someone not liking you? I asked my son,  adding, "How do you cope?"

"Cause there are plenty of people that do like me," he said smiling, then walked away.

I sat thinking.  He is right.  In reality, despite efforts to be kind, thoughtful and do the right thing; there will always be someone who doesn't like me. (My mother couldn't imagine that such people existed.)

If  intent is pure it should be easier to endure life's heartaches. Yet I don't find it getting any easier, despite the logic of it all.

By Sea

As I got closer and closer, the notion that I could make it all the way home and then to the gas station in the morning without running out of gas, nearly talked me out of a stop.  I had been on the road for two and a half hours and that was just taxiing my kids from one athletic event to another. Tired; I really didn’t want to stop.

“Hey,” I heard a voice.  All my attention was on how quickly I could spend fifty bucks. I looked up from the gas meter. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.” He shifted the thin grocery bag from one hand to another and smiled.

He looked just about the same as he did in Kindergarten and First Grade when we spent every school day together just taller.  “‘Heard you’re doing well,” I began.

“Ya, ‘going to Italy this summer.  Last summer was Alaska and the summer before that was…”  

I stopped pumping.  “Jealous,” I yelled. “Still lobstering?”

“Nah, I go to school year round.  There’s no time. Can’t wait to finish school though.”

“I remember that feeling.  You get itchy. I know it well.”

We said our goodbyes and both drove away in opposite directions.  I wonder if he too was remembering how much fun we had reading and writing together?  School still had that brand new feeling.  Now he travels the world and continues to learn. How lucky to be young and a world traveler by sea.

Empty

She walked in the room.  It was stripped of everything that belonged to him.  No note.  No explanation. Nothing.  It left her empty.  Sad.

Was she responsible? She may never know.

She stood in the room.  Alone in the silence.  

A Shift

Flood warnings for the entire state, the radio blared. I look around, the piles of snow linger only in the shelter of dense woods.  “No danger here,” I think to myself, “All safe.”

Later, in the evening while I sit quietly reflecting on my day, I’m embarrassed by my casual reaction to the warning. In reality, lives and property are at risk and considering the extended winter we endured, the snow melt could create some long lasting issues for Maine folks.  

When I was growing up, I never got used to houses regularly being swept out to sea.  Undaunted owners would rebuild in the same spot and certainly face recurring losses.  Many years ago geologist built a jetty that created problems that no one could imagine.  The little seaside village where my grandfather built a family home has been disappearing bit by bit.  No one seems to know how to fix it.

Place.  It is important.  Through the years houses change hands, landscape shifts or is altered due to weather or man.   Yet memories are framed by place.  The tiny strawberries I picked in the lot next door where a house now sits, I can still taste. Bringing my once stained fingers to my nose, I can smell the sweetness.  I hear the rattle of the windows in the first house that my husband and I shared in Otter Creek; we began our lives together there.  Place evokes memory.

Flood warnings for the entire state. I will always pray that our memories of place remain intact.

we all have stories to tell

"How do we know about those around us?...Sit close to someone you love and implore that person to tell and tell and tell their story. " -Thanhha Lai

We’d sit close on the sofa, but not before my grandmother smoothed  the scratchy coverlet, the one with white gray roses as big as cabbages that seemed to match the wallpaper in Papa’s room. She’d tell me stories.  I only remember a few.  As a young impressionable boy, my father aimed for piety.  He would pretend that he was a priest.  His religious collar-a Kotex pad. Each time Gram told me that story she would laugh holding her belly, but she told it in a way that expressed her love for my father and his resourceful ways.  He did not become a priest. I think that thought was short lived.

My grandmother threw up just once in her life.  The  cross country trip from Washington, DC to San Francisco was hot. She unloaded in a gas station rest room that did not meet my grandmother’s strict standards of cleanliness. Two stories. One  kotex and a whole life time of experiencing the wretchedness of “tossing your cookies” just once.  I remember that story because it seemed like I had become adept at holding a bowl under my chin. Oh how I long to remember something really really important.  Something really really meaningful.   Decades of stories lost on a girl who didn’t know better.

Do I know better now?  I am not sure.  At one point in my life, actually several points in my life I toyed with the idea of becoming a Social Worker.  Psychology fascinated me.  Mostly, I thought I was a good listener. Is it because life has become complex?  Everyone is moving about so fast.  Is it that I have a tendency to be anxious and  to jump to conclusions?  I stopped listening. I stopped listening well.

Listen.  Invite the stories to come.

Living

Just when did fear seep into my life?  Is it the normal condition of a reasonable adult? A young colleague of mine is planning a trip across the country.  By herself.  At one point I wanted to walk the Appalachian Trail, bike long distances and to explore this country. Two summers ago, I thought about going out into the woods and camping by myself.  The thought terrifies me. All the ‘What if’s….’  begin to activate and my logical brain twists into one big knot.  Could I do any of these things by myself?  After almost thirty-five years of marriage I have come to rely on company.  My husband helps me out of fixes on a daily basis and my tall children reach things for me. Could I survive being alone for long periods of time?  Is this really all about fear?

I must challenge myself.  Although I have been in the same skin for more than ‘half-way to one-hundred’ years, there is more to discover about me. I continue to learn everyday.   There are more chances to take.  More adventures.   Trust trumps fear because I possess the inner resources and strength to live and love fully through the joys and heartbreak. I want to feel it all.  Only then will I know that I am living and bust through the fear.

An Unexpected Journey

The sleet pings against the window. The ground is white again. The wind howls. It is the last day of March.  The calendar tricked us all into thinking it was spring more than ten days ago.   There are some things you just can’t change.  So why complain? Yet, I sit here on my hands trying to stay warm and control myself.  This yucky weather is getting to me.

A few years ago when I began reading, Ann Voskamp’s A Thousand Gifts: Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are, I had no idea how it would begin to shape me.  In short, Ann was going through a difficult passage in her life.  At the time, she was a young mother, wife and the daughter of a minister.  She felt unhappy and unfulfilled.   Ann began the practice of documenting images, sounds and events in her life that filled her with gratitude.  Her goal was to accumulate 1,000 life-bites of gratitude.

Three years ago, I began the same practice.  When my heart stirs with discontent or sadness, I reach for my Gratitude Journal.  I may simply begin to connect with gratitude by reading my posts. I slow down, heighten my senses and begin to write.  Here are a few excerpts from my journal:

#1:  The pungent flavor, texture and smell of freshly ground pepper scattered across the surface of my omelet.

#4:  The perfect roll of cuff on my favorite wool sweater.

#183:  A forest path mottled with light.

#449: Scraping the windshield produces ribbons of frost.

#731:  Hugs from former students who are now taller than me.

#759:  Warm floorboards.

#831:  Husband’s whistling as he comes through the door.

Consciously for me, there are no guidelines or rules associated with this journal.  I don’t write in it everyday. As a matter of fact, I have misplaced the journal for days, weeks and  months. When I find it-I begin the practice again.

This has allowed me to focus on the good in my life. Gratitude opens my heart to love and the possibilities available to me.

Vanity?

I spend a lot of time thinking about how I struggle to take care of myself. How did I get here? So here’s the thing: I show up this morning at my all time favorite salon The Alchemist. A friend had recommended it a few years back. She didn’t tell me anything about it, just that, “It’s great!”

I walk into this oasis.  Where I am asked if I want herbal tea or water.  Jamie, my stylist takes the time to find out what I want and is not afraid to make suggestions.  “Do you mind if I give you a head massage?”

“No.” I respond thinking what kind of question is that?  Who in their right mind would refuse!

Minutes go by.  I close my eyes and begin to relax. A half hour later I think, Could these foil squares be used to wrap sandwiches? Those are the thoughts that tend to rumble on the conveyer belt in my mind. I am the mother of multiple teenaged boys, what can I say? My head is covered with foil neatly folded here and there. This is my time.

“Do you mind, if I give you a hand massage after I clean up at bit?”  

I feel the smoothness of her hands press against mine. “Jamie, take me, I’m yours.  I’ll do anything you want.” I am nearly drooling, I am SO relaxed.

My neck always hold painful memories of washing my hair.  The sink that cradles my head must harmonize with the height of the chair.  Jamie adjusts it perfectly.  The water temperature is well not to be redundant, but perfect as well.  Then more massaging.   My head is covered in foamy suds.  I think back to my mother.  Washcloth on my eyes blinking away the sting, my head titled back at an angle, it was never suppose to be. Then the SCRUB.  Oh, Jamie, I think, this is such an improvement!

At Jamie’s station, my back is to the mirror.  I chat. She cuts, blow-dries and cuts some more. She’s almost done. Jamie applies a little cheek color and lip color spinning my chair around for the unveiling. Looking in the mirror I well up.  I don’t feel vain, but I feel beautiful.  I blink back tears.  

-Photo courtesy of Jamie at The Alchemist

Sometimes I don’t see my beauty-inner or outer.  Allowing others to help me discover me-that is part of self-care, isn’t it?

(If you are a neighbor, I cannot say enough about the girls at The Alchemist in Ellsworth, Maine.  They are compassionate woman who truly care. Of course, a special thank you to Jamie.  I always look forward to seeing you!)