Category: Writing a Book

Diderot’s Robe

I’ve often used the analogy of Diderot’s Robe to describe the odd sense of frustration I felt when I was renovating old houses.

A similar sense of dissatisfaction ensued when I acquired a snazzy new something – an appliance, a jazzy new piece of furniture, or even a new clothing item. When is enough?

Buying new things can make old things look bad by comparison. It is difficult to buy one new appliance without wanting to change them all to match. New furniture can make your old furniture look shabby. New clothing usually needs new accessories, like shoes or a piece of jewelry or a bright scarf to “go with it.” Maybe a new coat or jacket, too?

The phrase Diderot effect was coined in reference to French philosopher Denis Diderot (1713-1784) who bemoaned the gift he received of a new housecoat.

The effect was first described in Diderot’s essay “Regrets on Parting with My Old Dressing Gown”. Here he tells how the gift of a beautiful scarlet dressing gown leads to unexpected results, eventually plunging him into debt. Initially pleased with the gift, Diderot came to rue his new garment. Compared to his elegant new dressing gown, the rest of his possessions began to seem tawdry and he became dissatisfied that they did not live up to the elegance and style of his new possession. He replaced his old straw chair, for example, with an armchair covered in Moroccan leather; his old desk was replaced with an expensive new writing table; his formerly beloved prints were replaced with more costly prints, and so on.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diderot_effect

The term Diderot effect is commonly heard in discussions of sustainable consumption and green consumerism. A purchase or gift can create dissatisfaction with one’s existing possessions and environment. This can start a pattern of consumption with negative environmental, psychological, and social impacts.

I have lived this effect and continue to struggle with it. I have a pretty good idea where it started.

My comfortable and financially secure childhood – while unstable – was ripped away from me at 11 years old. The transition from a life of comfortable middle class privilege to a life of poverty was gradual when I look back at it now.

I mostly recall that what had formerly been easy to acquire or take part in no longer was. There used to be riding lessons and swimming lessons and dance lessons and summer camp. New clothes to start every school year. At Christmas, we counted on the new cotton nighties and slippers from my grandmother. After I turned 11, these all went away.

My Dad moved us to another province. My mother was no longer in my life, except nominally. By sixteen, I was living on my own in a big city. My father moved an hour and half away to his own new home in the country.

I used to watch my peers in amazement who never seemed overly troubled by money issues. They needed something, asked their parents for it and got it. I remember asking my father for anything new or necessary made me feel I had deeply insulted him. I was – by even asking – doing something horribly wrong. What exactly I didn’t know.

I found myself in harm’s way when I didn’t have – or wouldn’t spend – the money for taxi fare. I was occasionally trapped in a dicey situation where booze and drugs were flowing much too freely. The boys at those parties could be presumptuous and opportunistic.

Sorting out my relationship with money has been a lifelong struggle and continues. As I look around, I don’t believe I am alone in this troubled relationship with money and things. Cumulative credit card debt is staggering. Indeed the debt burden of the USA is staggering itself.

A storage company in my Canadian hometown is erecting building after building as people seek out a place to keep their excess goods. I am one of them. They are doing a land office business. Think about that. Paying huge sums of money to store items because we don’t have space or a use for them in our present environment? Sounds pretty crazy, doesn’t it?

Our way of life and consuming is wildly out of balance. I chuckle at the allure of “big box stores.” I once read Costco and Sam’s and Wal-Mart give consumers the dual psychological satisfaction of “thrift” and “abundance.” Local grocery stores offer so many BOGO items that I may soon need to rent a storage locker for my excess canned goods.

I once longed to win the lottery., Who wouldn’t want a magical solution to their money problems? Who wouldn’t want guaranteed financial security? Who wouldn’t want the joy and satisfaction of taking care of friends and loved ones who would benefit from the help? And who hasn’t seen or heard the common stories of lottery winners whose lives spiraled downward and out of control just a few short years after their windfall?

I so get Diderot’s dilemma. I have lived it. It is hard to answer the question, “When is enough?” Like so many other of life’s big questions (and money, given its central role in our health, comfort and well-being is certainly one of them), it is time to make a truce with money.

To befriend it but not make it my master. To acquire what we need without being showy or arrogant (tell that to a Leo!!). To get off the credit card merry-go-round. Diderot knew why.

“I was absolute master of my old dressing gown”, Diderot writes, “but I have become a slave to my new one … Beware of the contamination of sudden wealth. The poor man may take his ease without thinking of appearances, but the rich man is always under a strain”.

tps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diderot_effect

Fruit Farming Fool

I am becoming a farming addict and I am not sure there is a cure. I am also not sure that I want one. I am having a ball.

Living at the minute in an agreeable growing climate, I have lost my mind a little. Not entirely but I am having a daily wrestling match in my head to contain my enthusiasm. I want to buy every fruit tree known to humanity and put it in the ground just to see how it works out. Rationally, I know I can’t do that. Tell that to my enthusiasm.

Part of me is intrigued that fruits and other food we can actually eat come off the branches of spindly little woody things stuck in the ground. It does not seem possible. My greatest exposure to fruit trees previously had been apples. We had orchards in abundance when I was young and dozens of varieties to choose from.

Yet in recent weeks, I have bought three (yes, three) different types of lemon trees. I have bought a Persian lime tree, a Valencia orange tree and an avocado. I am learning there is so much to learn about flowering trees and plants that I would need a PhD in horticulture to get even a minor handle on all of them.

The trees came to us half-grown and healthy. On average, they are about 5-6 feet high. I didn’t mean to buy three lemon trees as I was going for a Meyer lemon. Those babies intrigue me. They look like a perfectly normal lemon but taste somewhere between a lemon and an orange. Sour but sweet. Whatever.

The Ponderosa is a patio lemon tree but I read its fruit can get as big as a grapefruit. Good for juicing but sounds like it could outgrow its’ patio pot PDQ.

The “ordinary” lemon tree (I must look up its type) delivered in error smells so amazing and is covered with so many blossoms, I didn’t have the heart to send it back. I may set up a late life onset lemon (not lemonade) stand when those flowers start blooming into edible lemons to manage the tsunami. Edible being relative when it comes to lemons, of course.

On the Meyer lemon, two massive green orbs already hang from the lower branches. The upper branches are awash in blossoms and smell heavenly. I don’t even care what the neighbors think of me for shamelessly sniffing sinfully sweet-smelling lemon blossoms.

I bet they’re just jealous.

I don’t yet know what distinguishes a Persian lime from any other run-of-the-mill grocery store lime. Maybe nothing. But again I am intrigued about ours as it has opened another path of inquiry to learn the differences in lime varieties.

I didn’t exactly stop at fruit trees. I bought one spindly bamboo tree. I hear they are killer growers so I deliberately started small. The half-price elephant ear plant I bought at Lowe’s last month has doubled in size. So much so that I had to transplant it to a 30 gallon pot from its 3 gallon pot so its roots could find relief and much needed-room to spread out.

The deep pink bougainvillea is a sight to behold. The lady at the garden shop told me they are “beautiful, but mean.” Hidden behind their lush floral display are inch-long thorns. Prune with extreme caution, I learned.

The night-blooming jasmine are not yet mature enough to emit any fragrance. I know from past experience they will smell amazing once they are established.

Somehow the wonder of what these plants are and one day will be is hitting me full on. Orange juice from our own trees. A salmon filet seasoned with sea salt and a fresh sprinkling of juice from one of our many lemon varieties. Dare I say guacamole made with our very own Hass avocados?

I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I am told the tree will take seven years to bear edible fruit. Still I have come so far. I cannot count how many avocado pits I dutifully seeded and placed in my kitchen window for years without single one ever having made it into the ground.

Maybe that is the explanation that underlies my current obsession. I have the land and the climate in which to pursue all the planting fantasies I ever had. It would appear the time is right to make some of those fantasies come true.

Did I hear someone say Bing cherry tree?

Changing Direction

Change is the only constant in life, they say.

I both hate change and I don’t. Whatever change I am on the brink of causes me stress whether I expect the change to be positive and, obviously, when I anticipate the change will be negative.

I haven’t always been able to accurately call how a situation is going to work out or how I am going to feel about it. Not in the beginning anyway.

I have enthusiastically embarked on new jobs only to discover several weeks or months later that the work and the situation were not what I expected.

Maybe the work hours were too demanding and draining. My colleagues may have been less than I expected. Testier, maybe. Or uncooperative. Backstabbers.

Sometimes I felt I just didn’t fit the job or the job didn’t fit me. Those jobs obviously didn’t last all that long. Their choice by times, and at other times, mine.

The trouble is we cannot know what lies ahead of us. We make the best decisions we can based on what calls to us or what we are forced to choose. The former are the lucky ones. The ones who pursue a path in life just because it feels right. Not because Mommy or Daddy did it for a living or are telling you to do it.

You can burn a lot of daylight and productive years following someone else’s dictates and expectations. Many people feel they have no choice. Many people do it because they can’t conceive of other alternatives. Many can conceive of other alternatives but are too afraid to try.

The people who imagine a different future and don’t pursue it are the ones I feel most sorry for. It is like that old saying: a taste of honey is worse than never having tasted honey at all.

You cannot continually negate or ignore what is most important to your soul and realistically expect a good result. Yet many ignore the calling of their soul anyway. And many pay a very high price for doing so. The “go-along-to-get-along” crowd.

Believe me, the crowd doesn’t give a care. Your life is yours. Believe that. I fear many don’t. It is hard to establish a path, set goals and establish boundaries that will help you get there. There can be a lot of choppy water to get through.

I reflect on this as I have been reading book coaches websites. They know intimately (or at least claim to know) the excuses, the obstacles, the distractions, the temptations, the naysayers scripts (both external and internal) that prevent people from writing.

Book coaches have advice to defeat them all. They have it because they have heard every excuse imaginable.

There is no question that if you write your truth honestly the feeling it generates may be akin to taking off all your clothes and running down main street carrying a flaming torch above your head. Risky, chilly business.

I write what I know because of what I lived through and what I learned from it. Then I share what I experienced and learned with others. I may not be the choir director but my voice is as necessary as any other to add texture and complexity to the choir’s harmonies.

That is a massive change in direction for me. C’mon, I’m a Leo. We are astrologically ordained to be showy, flamboyant and annoying. But that tactic is no longer working for me. I don’t want to be the sharpest tool in the shed. I don’t want to lead the parade. I am happy to follow along in the flow of life and add my steps when and as I am able.

And that is what terrifies me most. Who am I if I am not always in charge? Who am I if I just let something slide? Who am I if I admit my limitations? Maybe just another struggling human being?

That may not be so bad. I have always sensed most people are more forgiving of me than I am of myself. Getting to a place of consistent self-forgiveness would be a nice change.

Maybe I’ll try that for a while and see how it works out. At least, it’s not a job I can be fired from or quit.

Who Knew Department

This may be something. It may be nothing.

When I find something that makes sense to me, I want to try it and I want to share it. And I will.

So here is something about bay leaves that I never knew. Now I do. And so do you.

Did you know this? I didn’t know either:

Many women add bay leaf to their foods, especially on red meat and wild game meat.

Without knowing the reason for adding bay leaves to food, when you ask a woman why, she tells you: to add taste and flavor to the food.

This is wrong because if you boil bay leaves in a cup of water and taste them, you won’t find any taste .

Why do you put bay leaves on meat?

Adding bay leaves to meat converts triglycerides to less fat to test and confirm this.

Cut one chicken in half and cook each half in a pot, put one bay leaf and the second without the bay leaf, and note the amount of fat in the two pots.

Helps to get rid of many health problems and dangerous diseases

Among the benefits of bay leaf:

Bay leaf cures digestive disorders and bay leaf helps to get rid of bloating.

Heartburn.

Acidity.

Constipation.

Antibiotic.

Anti-parasitic.

Digestivo.

Stimulators.

Sedative.

Regulate bowel movement by drinking hot tea.

It lowers blood sugar and bay leaf is an antioxidant.

It allows the body to produce insulin by eating it in food or drinking bay tea for a month.

Eliminates harmful cholesterol and frees the body of triglycerides.

It is very useful in treating colds, flu and severe cough, because it is a rich source of vitamin C. You can boil the leaves and inhale the steam to eliminate the cough and reduce the severity of the cough.

Bay leaf protects the heart from attacks and also protects against strokes because it contains compounds that protect the heart and blood vessels.

Rich in acids such as caffeic acid, quercetin, egonol and parthenolids, which are substances that prevent cancer cells from forming in the body.

Eliminates insomnia and anxiety if taken before bed, and helps you relax and sleep peacefully.

Drinking a cup of boiled bay twice a day melts kidney stones and cures infections.

Good Thinking

My friend Margo Talbot https://margotalbot.com/ is a world-renowned ice climber, author and mental health advocate.

Margo has led expeditions in such far-flung locales as Antarctica and the Arctic. She is a motivational speaker and writes a powerful blog about her insights along the road of life. She promotes women’s personal empowerment through workshops and coaching.

Her book All That Glitters: A Climber’s Journey Through Addiction and Depression, is a story of healing and redemption; a story about losing oneself, and then finding one’s way back home. https://margotalbot.com/book/

Margo writes about family dysfunction and healing from it and regaining/preserving mental health. She once gave a powerful TED talk on this very subject. https://youtu.be/kayj6oew9_M

In her youth, Margo got into trouble with drugs. She was eventually arrested for drug dealing. She has spent most of her adult life figuring out how she got there. She helps others to get out or stay out of similar places.

I met Margo Talbot as the group leader of an Outward Bound survival course I took in Ontario, Canada over a decade ago.

Margo taught us how to live survive in the woods. We chopped a lot of wood that week. We made a lot of fires out of forest detritus. We took a lot of swims in a cold and uninviting (but admittedly invigorating) lake.

Margo organized a solo camping trip for each participant on the final night. That was the “big finish” to the course.

Mid-afternoon on the next to last day, each of us were taken by canoe to separate remote campsites. We were left alone to spend the night with a tarp, some rope, a box of matches, snacks and a barebones breakfast. My nerves were pretty steady until nightfall neared.

I went wandering once I landed onshore. I came upon a derelict and uninhabitable shack in the woods with a two-hole outhouse beside it.

On the side of the shack hung a sign. In huge letters, it proclaimed: “Bear Country.”

I can’t even pretend I slept well that night. But I did survive. Bonus.

Margo once shared this wisdom below in a post and it has stayed with me.

I share her perspective.

Make lemonade.

“Things you don’t see coming in life: your sister trying to legally prevent you from seeing your dying father.

Your brother taking your father’s hearing aids from the nursing home to prevent you from having conversations with him.

Your mother defending both of your siblings and their actions.

Your extended family standing by doing nothing to prevent these emotional crimes.

The upside is, I don’t know ANYBODY who gets handed such PRICELESS stories to fill their books with!“

– Margo Talbot

Wait One Day

TRIGGER WARNING: This post describes attempted suicide and discusses suicidal ideation. If this topic distresses or otherwise triggers you, please don’t read further. Thank you. ED. NOTE.

When I was eleven years old, my mother made a serious and life-altering suicide attempt. She slit her wrists, was somehow rescued from the brink of death (I never knew the exact details), and landed in a mental hospital an hour’s drive away. For months. That was memorable.

My mother tried to escape the misery of her life and mostly her marriage, and by so doing, she altered the course of her children’s lives. Well, this child at any rate.

My mother’s way of handling her suicide attempt when she and we got older was to ignore it. She had a whole quiver of dismissive sayings to lessen the gravity of her failed attempt at self-annihilation. She referred to it only as “the bad thing.” The strong, unspoken proviso was that this was not something we should ever talk about.

That event, much of what led up to it and most of what followed shortly afterwards was a blur. No details. No one to ask. A mere blip and black hole in the narrative of our family’s life. By my mom’s account, it was nothing. Inconsequential. The addled addict is nothing if not cunning.

I grew up in the shadows of domestic violence, alcoholism, addiction and sexual abuse. But to hear my mother describe our childhood, it was a happy, sparkly place of constant love and adventures and fun and parties.

Which doesn’t exactly ring right considering the dark activities going on under our roof. I remember the first time I tried to engage my mother in an adult discussion about my childhood. After I brought up one or two uncomfortable memories, her facial expression aghast, she stopped me: “But Margot… don’t you remember all the parties?”

She emphatically didn’t like my refusal to go along with the sunny, cheery, “We’re all right, Jack” narrative she so carefully cultivated. If there was a poster child for positivity and “survival- at-all costs”, it would have been my mother.

When a former neighbor brought up their mutually unfortunate marital choices many years after the fact (“Didn’t we pick ourselves a couple of dandies?” she is said to have said), my mother demurred and coquettishly replied: “I only remember the bright years.”

Clancy Martin is the author of a new book, How Not to Kill Yourself: A Portrait of a Suicidal Mind. He has solid credentials as someone who attempted suicide ten times. His book strives to educate the reader about suicidal ideation and how an individual can be pushed to such an extreme.

Martin takes pains to assure survivors that there was likely little they could have done. Suicide is primarily about the individual and their very personal inner struggles – often chronic. When you live in unrelenting internal pain for so long, suicide can look like your only escape.

I’ve been there. I was flailing badly as a young adult. First year of university was proving to be a challenge. It offended my ego that I did not effortlessly master the academic format and content.

I was madly in love with a boy I had no idea how to be a partner to. I could feel us falling apart and I was panicking. I was drinking excessively. I could not see any way out.

My mother and I had never became confidantes. There was no one I could trust to talk to. Actually, there was simply no one. One night along with the booze, I managed to ingest an unreasonable quantity of sleeping pills. In the hospital, all I wanted was my parents to rescue me and tell me what to do.

My father called from several provinces away and talked to me long enough to ensure my care was in somebody else’s hands. My sister ran into my room beseeching me on behalf of my mother. “She feels so bad and needs to see you.” By then, I knew my mother well enough to know she likely only felt bad because what I did made her look bad. I eventually saw her and I was right.

I was surprised at how little follow up there was on me after I was discharged. I guess I’m still surprised at how unsophisticated and ignorant the mental health system is. The mind is mysterious enough that most people don’t much care to look closely at its darker, deeper aspects, except in the guise of TV crime shows. And most especially in themselves.

Martin’s book seeks to address some of those issues: people’s inadequacy in dealing with such a sensitive and big a topic as suicide; the general mess/clusterfuck that is the mental health system. His most important message is, if you are considering or have ever considered suicide, wait one day before you act. A lot can change in twenty-four hours.

Martin is forthcoming when asked why he writes as honestly as he does about his own suicide attempts. He explains that coming from a background of addiction and abuse promotes secrecy and lies as adults. Secrecy and lies kill people, he asserts. He said people need to hear and share their truth without judgment and rejection if we ever expect suicide rates go down.

Suicide, they say, is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

When you lay all your cards on the table and say, look what a mess my life is, look how much pain I’m in, look how much self-loathing I’m dealing with—but if you feel like I do, trust me, you can wait another day. 

https://hippocampusmagazine.com/2023/11/interview-clancy-martin-author-of-how-not-to-kill-yourself-a-portrait-of-a-suicidal-mind/

I concur. My own “suicide attempt” (basically very poor judgment after a night of heavy college drinking) was the proverbial “call for help.” In truth, no help was forthcoming. But I got lucky. I made my own luck.

Oprah and the self-help movement were taking off about the time I was trying to heal and move on. My childhood experiences eventually triggered a lifelong healing journey.

Today, life is good. I am at peace. I am grateful.

There are so many other places I could be other than I presently am.

Thanks to some extraordinarily gifted and insightful counselors, self-help authors, dumb luck, children and sobriety, dead isn’t one of them.

NATIONAL SUICIDE HOTLINE:
988
(the new national mental health crisis number: call if you need to)

Selling Instant Happiness

The high road is always an option. Finding a way out of difficult circumstances may not be easy but it is available. Usually with hard work and commitment. But let’s not get carried away. Radical transformation of your life or person is not possible for everyone. If it is, it is rarely easy.

And not always logistically possible at a given point. I was a single parent. My options were limited. Every parents’ options are limited if they are serious about being good parents. Kids are a major and serious time suck.

It taxes my patience to watch the endless carousel of “better you, better life” salespeople online. What bothers me most is the “one size fits all” approach that most of them take. Or worse, the purveyors of instant, easy healing tell us “YOU TOO” can be whatever you want to be.

Seriously? Endless possibilities may be a great message for the young and unformed. Who wouldn’t want a fast and easy ticket to “instant fame, success, happiness and wealth”? The problem is, life doesn’t work that way.

The message that “good things take time” doesn’t seem to be delivered much these days. Maybe it is but is just isn’t getting through. How can it compete with the messages of the fast, easy and no-fail crowd?

The notion of taking life step by step seems old-fashioned and irrelevant today. The rules for building a life and a family and wealth have been shaken to the core. Everyone is looking for a shortcut or fast track. Because they have been repeatedly told and reassured it is out there.

I believe there is a rude and widespread awakening coming. Time runs out. Responsibilities and urgent demands – emotional, professional and financial – increase exponentially as we get older. Or they should. Life closes in.

If you are still working as an Instagram influencer in your late 40s without a family or assets or anything else to ground you, there is very likely some harsh reality ahead.

I get angry because so many are pushing a “bill of goods” at us. The consequence is that instead of setting and pursuing concrete goals for self-development and self-improvement, many opt to take a shortcut to their dreams. So what happens if those dreams of “easy, instant success” don’t pan out? What is Plan B? Your fallback? Does anyone even think like that any more?

Physics has immutable rules. Life has immutable rules. Consequences are real. Life is finite. I have apologized to myself for pursuing the path that most of my peers elected to follow, instead of the road less taken. My loss. I was only half-brave, half-confident, half-committed to my own happiness. I didn’t believe I deserved it.

I am now at a place where I realize I deserve happiness (aka peace of mind) and getting there is up to me. I recently did some stock-taking. The track record of my life is a little spotty but it held me together for as long as I needed it to.

So my rant (and this IS a rant) is this. The madness of the world today needs a major course correction or it needs to come to an end. The extreme disconnect from reality and sanity we are living through today is unsustainable. Sadly, it is usually catastrophe that brings us to a screeching halt.

Teasing out a human-focussed, self-directed life of your own choosing is a hard slog. But the formula is pretty easy. Put yourself at the center of any discussion about what happiness is and what you want your life to be. Steel yourself for pushback.

My idea of happiness is a life awash in books and flowers and great food and loving, lively relationships (well, maybe that is your idea of happiness and if so, email me). But that may not be yours.

And if it isn’t, then what is? Only you can answer that and it is the main question you must answer and frequently come back to. Set your path and life will cheer you on even as it is putting every imaginable challenge in your way. For some incomprehensible reason, that too is part of life’s rules.

You are the center of your own life. Examine your idea of what “selfish” really is because that is what they will call you.

Everyone else has an opinion of you that suits their own experience and agenda. It is up to you to establish the life and goals you want to pursue during your precious time on this planet. When you do, then be prepared to do whatever it takes to reach them.

Is your main life goal is attracting two million followers on TikTok and reaping the financial rewards well into your 50s and 60s? Are you 35 years old and setting out to give me financial advice that will “turn my life around”? Are you telling me what I did and didn’t do wrong in my life and what I should and shouldn’t have done?

If so, don’t bother to send me that email.

I can already tell you we have nothing in common.

Slipsliding Away

I’m slipping. It’s interesting to observe that in myself.

I am devoid of ideas and inspiration. I am committed to this blog but feel I’ve somehow lost the plot. I want to write about my difficult past and tease out the lessons that might help someone moving forward. But my difficult past should light my way forward, no?

Well, that’s what I used to think. Turns out I am just a bumbling, struggling, flawed human being after all. My difficulties have not admitted me to any circle of esteemed healers and wise women. I am not a fraud exactly. I write my truth as I see and experience it. But I am not much of anything else these days either.

I remember back to my heyday in writing for a living. There was no room for slippage back then. Deadlines had to be met. Ministers needed to be briefed on the event you’d written a speech for them to deliver. Brochure copy had to make it to the printer when they said so – not when I felt like it.

For many years, this felt perfectly normal. Writing can become formulaic and predictable. I saw and produced so much of that writing when I was in academia and government. There really wasn’t much originality expected or required. What was required was a finessing of someone’s already established ideas (in academia) and parroting the ruling party’s policies (in government).

Stick to the expected script and not much could go wrong. Such is the skill and expectation put upon professionals. As long as words could be strung together in a type of flow with logical segues, there wasn’t too much more expected of a writer.

So I balked a bit when I read about an author who feared her award-winning novel would be the peak of her career. She spoke of being afraid to start a new project because it might not live up to the one that had brought her such accolades.

Apparently this more or less happened to Harper Lee, the author of To Kill A Mockingbird. Given the achievement of the novel when it was published in 1960, you could hardly blame her. She didn’t publish another novel until 2015. Turns out it was a forgotten novel by Lee and something of a prequel to Mockingbird.

All to say lately I’ve been struck by how much my head isn’t much into “healing” these days.

Instead, it is into plants and flowers and fruit trees and birds in the morning and flying overhead and gentle rainfall. And flower and seed catalogs. Now those catalogs are where a first-rate horticultural career could easily be founded.

Then it occurred to me – in that sardonic way when you hit your head and say “duh” – I am living life as a “healed” person and a “survivor.” There is no hubris in that.

Like my years of sobriety and my beautiful delicate marriage, I know how fragile and fleeting both good and bad can be in our lives. And I wonder why it seems at just that very moment when you have accepted and adapted to a raft of changes, you get more change.

I guess that is supposed to help us grow and “evolve” but it sounds like a pretty dirty trick to me. So don’t be surprised if my verbiage turns to the wonders that surround me these days.

For someone who spent most of her life running after happiness and safety and validation, it seems logical that when she gets it – knowing its’ fragility – you’d best hunker down to savor and enjoy it.

Maybe I am not slipping at all.

Maybe I am deliberately slowing down.

To smell the roses.

“Stopping to smell the roses is an act of appreciation and recognizing the source of the goodness in our lives.” Wikipedia

That checks out.

Home Safe Home

A common consequence of being raised in an abusive household is an adult survivor’s ambivalent feelings around the concept of ”home.” My feelings about “home” certainly were.

Maybe because of that background, I was determined to create one. I was as ill-prepared to do that as a chef who had never stepped foot in a food market, much less a kitchen. Home was foreign territory.

An abused child is powerless. The only option they have is to adapt and survive the environment they are in. When bad things happen or they see bad things happen, an abused child often believe it happened because they did something “wrong.” Children are notoriously egocentric..

I eventually came to distinguish feelings of “guilt” from feelings of “shame.” Guilt is feeling bad about a mistake you made. Shame comes from the feeling you are a mistake. Major difference.

I only know that I emerged into young adulthood with the twin challenges of navigating life having grown up without the basic blueprint everyone else seemed to have.

A label that sums up my childhood environment might be “bohemian intellectualism.” Or “intellectual bohemianism.” Basically an environment of free thinking adults without many rules and utterly inconsistent.

Which is pretty scary for children. If there is anyone on the planet who needs structure and boundaries, it is children. They need limits for many reasons. First, they cannot impose them on themselves. Their judgment isn’t all that. Children don’t always realize “when is enough.”

I have come to understand that setting boundaries and limits on children allows them to safely test the parameters of their lives. Life is overwhelming enough for adults to say nothing of small children. It is why parents try to protect children from life’s harsher realities before they are mature enough to handle them.

Trauma teachers frequently reference the resiliency and survival skills of abused children. All children are known to have some innate ability to “bounce back” from loss and disappointments. I believe I had that characteristic. But as a child, I remember wishing there was someone or something to guide and protect me. I concluded early that my parents weren’t capable of doing that.

Not for a lack of trying on my parents’ part, to be fair. Neither of them had healthy coping skills themselves and very poor judgment when it came to hiring babysitters and caregivers. My memories are mostly neutral or unhappy looking back on the dozen or so housekeepers we had come and go when we were children.

Caregivers infractions ranged from the benign irresponsibility of a babysitter having her boyfriend over while she cared for us. Greater violations came from imbuing trust in troubled adults to take care of vulnerable little girls. It seemed there were so many of these defectives who came into our life.

Home was never a place of safety for me. Those final few steps before arriving home from school often churned up a mixture of apprehension or anxiety. Maybe Mom was passed out on the couch, or in her bedroom. People might be sitting around drinking. Well before the sun went over the yardarm.

Those were just the daytime anxieties. On many nights, especially after guests’ drinking heavily, the anxiety got worse. One night I went into my bedroom and found a man I didn’t know passed out in my bed. I’m not all together sure where I slept that night. Maybe the couch in the basement rec room.

The work of keeping myself calm internally – both in my heart and in my mind – still requires effort. Like any “practice,” remaining calm and centered and focussed especially in the face of severe overwhelm and stress, takes commitment and repetition.

Life guided me to a healing path. I’ve figured out that the home and safety we crave is ultimately found within us. It took a long time to learn that. It is a process of building trust and belief – in the world around us and in ourselves. I don’t know which of those was harder for me to achieve.

When I compare how I am now to how I used to be, I drolly remind myself and those who witnessed me struggle, “I am much better now.”

It has taken a long time and much personal work to shake off that desperate and dogged insecurity. I have read that a loving and happy marriage can heal emotional wounds if the partners are truly there for one another.

I appreciate the safe harbor I’ve landed in. It might never have been. I look at this loving relationship with the same degree of wonder as I look back on what it took to me to survive.

Mine has not been a “normal” path. But I learned to keep myself safe and that I was worthy to have it. The evidence being that I am here now.

I can write down heartfelt words of gratitude for what is and, most especially, for what no longer is.

Perchance to Dream

It is rather brilliant how we keep the harsher realities of life at arm’s-length as we go about our day-to-day lives.

Death occurs around us all the time. It is happening somewhere right now to someone we don’t even remotely know and now never will. We rarely feel death’s bite until it is up close and personal. When someone in our family dies, or in our circle, however, the hole left in our own little world is palpable and vast.

Whether suddenly or after a long illness, the transition from interacting with a thinking, breathing individual to internalizing their utter absence is wrenching. It can stir up all manner of emotional reactions and invite you into a period of self-reflection. If you’re lucky.

Starting out in life, mostly we are lucky enough to ignore all of that. As young people struggling to find their feet and make their own lives, the primary focus in early adulthood is on building an education and career and home and family. Not for everybody, especially these days, but for many.

In his book, The Myth of Normal, author, physician and public speaker Gabor Mate challenges the collective concept of “normalcy.” He challenges our notions of what currently passes as “normal” in our physical and psychological lives in the Western world.

Instead, Mate says, our culture and the institutions it has created, are founded on very unhealthy and unstable ground. We have built most of our health and support systems focused on intervention and not on prevention.

In this sense, our society has built responses based largely on reactive and superficial markers. Doctors rarely have time to dig deep enough into a person’s history and social/emotional context to gather information about conditions that might underly and caused their illness.

Mate asserts that personal and cultural trauma contributes significantly to all health problems – both physical and psychological — and the physical and psychological cannot be fully separated from one another.

I could not agree more. It is life’s inequalities and access to opportunities that shape us. Also – as Mate explains – we are all defined for better or worse by the circumstances of our birth and the family we are born into. The continuum is widely divergent.

We paint over the divergence from our personal experience of “normalcy” with stories or rationalizations. Our co-created narrative attempts to explain away why our “normal” family is somehow legitimately different or unique or better than or less than others.

In our family, my mother dictated the value of accomplishment above almost everything. My father saw value in great wealth. While these were their espoused values, their reality was markedly different.

Ongoing struggles in both parents with addiction and self-esteem. Inter-personal violence. Destructive power struggles between my mother and father as they sought to prove superiority over the other.

So we had a house. And cars. And my parent’s had careers. And a marriage. And social standing. Until, one day, suddenly, they didn’t.

It is hard to grieve the death of a way of life. I look back now on how radically and permanently my life changed when my parents split up and we left the town I was born in. It would be rare for a child to make sense of what was happening to them in a traumatic environment at the moment. Children’s primary job is to survive and grow. Making sense of how they did that must come later.

I think of this when I reflect on the Ukraine or Gaza. The reality they are living through – the children in particular – will become their memory of ”normal” up the road. Yet we all seem to proceed with the expectation that to succeed in life, the survivors must simply put the past behind them, step up to do what must be done to make a life and integrate themselves as productive and “normal” citizens.

We do ourselves no favors by ignoring death’s reality and eventuality around us and for us. Traditional farmers seemed to have a better handle on this than city folk. The cycles of birth and death can be daily occurrences in lives lived close to the land.

Collectively, we are all “whistling past the graveyard.” So the trick is not necessarily to focus on death and its certainty while we are living our lives. But we shouldn’t discount it either.

Poet Mary Oliver dealt with an abusive childhood background by turning her focus to nature and exploring her own sense of wonder. It is available to all of us if we but look. We all need to figure out what Oliver famously asked of us: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” 

Answering that question for yourself and living it out is the rebuttal you will draw on when facing your own death. It will also allow you to create your own personal and unique sense of “normalcy,” and not one imposed on you by others.

It’s in you, believe me. All you have to do is find the courage and character to act on it. That is what I tell myself anyway and, for the most part, it is working.