These spectacular tulips greeted me at the corner of Riverside Drive and Monument Avenue at Riverscape Metro Park in Dayton, Ohio. I was stopped in my tracks by their gorgeous full blown beauty. Our culture is obsessed with peak beauty, youthful beauty. We hear the phrase "past its peak," the implication being that the most beautiful moment has passed. But is that true? Take a closer look.
More is visible when the tulips are fully open. We can see and appreciate what's inside. What if we begin to look at one another that way? Recognize that a mature woman allows us to see beyond the perfection of youth. There are few things more attractive than a woman fully present in her body, fully aware of her power and creativity. Let's go forward today and look for those women. When you see one, share that smile, that look, that glance, that says I see you and you are gorgeously in full bloom.
Good Friday was a day of self-care and reflection for me. I scheduled an early massage appointment at Harmony Farm because I wanted to have time to walk the labyrinth on the grounds before having lunch in Tipp City.
The massage was blissful, opening my mind to new thoughts and connections. The weather was perfect, the first day in weeks with temperatures warm enough to want to do the hike down to the labyrinth and be comfortable walking slowly. My mantra, Solvitur Ambulando, It Is Solved By Walking, guides my steps. As I navigated around the twists and curves of the labyrinth, I stayed open. I found myself asking, who am I? The immediate answers were wife, mother, friend, writer, creative, and teacher. That wife came first was eye opening. I am no longer a wife. But its place in the list tells me how important that role was to me. And though I am no longer a wife, it does not mean I wasn't a very good one because I was. It's been a long journey to recognize and accept that.
After the labyrinth, I decided to walk down to the Miami River. Harmony Farm has picnic tables and benches there, a fine place to write, reflect, and enjoy nature. As I walked I kept noticing forked sticks. After the fourth or fifth one, I decided to pick one up. I had a flash back to Lent ten years ago. I was reeling from the discovery of my husband's affair and was in my home town in Pennsylvania. I fled there while my husband remained in Ohio to decide if he wanted me or the twenty three year old woman with whom he was having an affair. As I write that I am astounded that I tolerated that. I expect that most folks who know me are surprised as well. Severe trauma can do that; it can bring us to our knees. Literally in this case. I remember going to confession and sobbing out my story to an elderly, very startled priest. He had no idea how to help me. I did not know how to help myself but I knew I needed help. Which brings me to these forked sticks in my path. I had to make a choice back then. I chose to survive and I chose to do whatever it takes to feel whole again.
People react to trauma in different ways. With regard to affairs and divorce, it is quite common to see some divorce quickly and then immediately find another relationship. Some folks stay together without doing any healing work and live with toxic hurt and mistrust bubbling below the surface. Some couples work together, maybe for the first time in their relationship truly being honest and vulnerable with one another, and create a better, stronger marriage. In my case there was no quick divorce nor was there any healing. So it was up to me to do the work on my own.PTSD is not something one heals from quickly. But I chose to walk that way; I took that fork in the road. Perhaps all these sticks in my path were there to remind me to do it again. To look at the possibilities and decide where to go next. The journey was difficult but rewarding. I'm glad I took the time to sort through all the hurt and pain and examine who I was, who I am, and who I choose to become. My first, most important role is to be myself. Only then can I successfully meet others' needs. To get here required time. To get here required making difficult choices. I needed to be on my own. I did not need to fill the hole created by divorce with another person; I needed to fill it with myself. Now I wake each day with gratitude and say, "I choose to be happy." I've put on my traveling shoes and look forward to the journey.
Embracing life!
The last stanza of Robert Frost's poem, The Road Not Taken:
This is my Prius, the first car I ever bought on my own. The first car I ever bought for me. The first car I ever bought based on what I want. And it was definitely a sensuously sixty experience. Pure delight.
When the ex and I were dating in high school, every once in a while, he would be allowed to drive his mother’s car, a sweet 1967 mint green Malibu convertible. One of my favorite date memories is riding, top down, on a starry summer night after one of the invitation-only dances held in a summer pavilion in a private community.I can recall the feeling of driving along those mountain roads, relaxed, pleasantly tired from dancing, happy, nothing but tree tops swaying in the wind, crystal clear skies, and one another.
We were very poor for a very long time after we married but I promised myself that one day I would find a 1967 Malibu convertible and have it restored as a gift for him. I had several contacts in the car restoration community who promised to call me when they found one. I dreamt of us riding around in that car, top down, celebrating a well-lived life. One of the rewards of growing old together.
Well, that was not to be. One of many dreams that I did not realize meant something only to me, not to “us.” But, you know, it gets boring feeling sad about stuff like that. One day you start thinking; hey what about buying something that would make me happy? What about something to make new memories?
So when I decided to look for a hybrid, I found myself telling the car salesman I wanted a green car. Period. It had to be green. I had already decided to buy a used car, (thank you Clark Howard!) but was surprised to hear myself say green only. I was not in a hurry and I was willing to wait for what I wanted. My car salesman, a young man named Todd, patiently explained to me that used Prius were hard to come by and usually sold within twenty-four hours of reaching the lot. Most people are happy to just find one. I said okay just call me when you get a green one. When one came in a few days later, he called me, laughing, saying I can’t believe it but I’ve got one. When I saw the car I understood why it had to be green.
This is my Malibu convertible. It is a gorgeous green; most of my friends describe it as sage. Sage is an important word in my life. The color is my favorite. I love cooking with the herb. And I am surrounded with sage artists, healers, and creators; old souls.
My Prius, now named Sage, is not flashy, is not sexy, and is not imbued with old memories.
It is expectant. It is poised for new dreams, new explorations, and new experiences. I’m looking forward, not back. And every single cell in my body is dancing with the possibilities.
I recently watched this YouTube video of Maria Shriver. It was posted on AOL before her divorce plans were in the news. I was struck by how desperate she seemed. I admire this woman, especially the work she has done since leaving television to be the First Lady of California. Her women's project is inspiring and far reaching. She always seemed so fearless, so self-assured, so centered. Yet in this clip she looks frail, her luxurious hair seems thin, her shoulders rounded. She looks lost. Even her smile at the end seemed more like a grimace. I wondered why this transition out of government life would be so difficult. She's doing incredible, important work; is loved and admired by many, has so many talents and strengths.
Then I heard the news, not only had her husband been unfaithful but it was with a family staff member and he has a thirteen year old son from the relationship. Blam! Now I understood completely. That transition. Life as she knew it, is over. The man she loved best in the world, the person she trusted above all others, the man she had devoted her life to, made sacrifices for, fathered her children... is a liar and a cheat. She is in shock and the repercussions from this shock will take her years, maybe the rest of her life, to recover from. I have complete faith in her ability to do this. But my heart breaks for her, aches for her.
I know that no matter how hard she tries to not have it so, those newly faced horrors are hammering in her mind every waking moment. He cheated. He lied. I know this woman. There is a child. Approximate age of my youngest. He's known for ten years and kept it from me while he cared for her and her son. What else don't I know? How could he? Why would he? He's hurt me. He's hurt my children. I have slept next to and with a man who is a stranger. Who is he? Worse, who am I? How did I not know? I am so humiliated. I have wasted my love on a liar and a cheat. What else has he lied about?
And then, when she gets past those big questions, she'll start examining the details. She'll realize more and more how deep the deception runs. How he has looked her in the eye for years and told her he loves her while he was having an affair and has another child. She'll start looking around her home, wondering. How could this woman be in my home and sleeping with my husband? She'll start piecing together the times she trusted and was deceived. She'll look at family photos from the past and wonder how he could do that. How he could pose as a devoted husband and father while he was committing adultery? She'll be haunted by what else she doesn't know.
But eventually, and for her sake I hope it does not take her as long as it took me, she'll realize what he did is on him. She did nothing to deserve that level of betrayal. No matter what difficulties there may or may not have been in their relationship, there is no right in his wrongs. If your needs aren't being met in your marriage, tell your partner. Love is a verb. Love and respect your partner enough to be honest and get help. If the problem is unresolvable, end the marriage with grace and dignity and respect. Only then look elsewhere.
The damage from this level of betrayal runs deep, right down to the cellular level, and requires so much work to heal. And she'll have to try and heal herself while also tending to her wounded children. Everywhere she looks her life is enmeshed with his and now she has to decide what life will look like from here on out. No wonder the poor woman is fumbling with questions about transitions.
I realize now that what I recognized in this video is her vulnerability, bewilderment, and pain. I recognized it because I have been there. She is lost. She is hurting. She is reaching out. She is also a survivor. She'll work her way through this. She'll do what is right for her children. Something he clearly gave little thought to as he took care of his own ego and needs. And she'll do it with as much dignity and grace as she can muster.
She is grieving the loss of her parents, her family of origin, and now she has to deal with the end of a marriage that was never what she thought it was or wanted it to be. When she most needs him, most needs to be loved and cherished, she has been disrespected. She now has to grieve the loss of her created family. She thought her family was a mother, a father, and four children. Now she knows there was at least one mistress and one other child. Who knows what else is hidden.
It does not matter how beautiful, intelligent, talented, generous you are. For some men, nothing is ever enough. They foolishly believe that if the wife doesn't know there will be no harm. The lie is the harm. And it will come out. What may have been a delicious affair for him is really just a pathetic secret. And as the saying goes, you're as sick as your secrets.
At the time of the video above, she knew the secret and was playing it close to the vest. Which brings me to my suggestions for how to handle the transition. First, no secrets. Face what you know. Just name the truth, no matter how painful. Walk right through that fire because the only healthy way out is through. Know that you will lose some friends, especially if you refuse to offer excuses or minimize the reality. There will be people who do not find it convenient to see the wrong. Most people will just want you to move on and pretend everything is fine. Get divorced, play nice, pretend. Don't do it! It is soul sucking. There is a huge difference between dealing with the truth and staying stuck or bitter. Get professional help. Friends are wonderful but will not be around for the length of time it takes to heal this. If you are doing all the work necessary people will think you are just not letting go and moving on. If he has power, and her husband certainly does, some people will not want to endanger their connection to that power. Take good care of yourself. Take all the time you need to fully heal. Be very, very kind to yourself. Practice good self-care. Review the people in your life. Ferret out all the folks you thought were trustworthy and you now see are moral relativists. Let go of the toxic relationships. Treasure the people who understand and are supportive. Find some more new supportive friends. When you are able to stand again, follow your passion. You no longer have to make all your life decisions based on what he needs. Take care of you. Eventually you will forgive but it takes time. And it is not a single act but rather an ongoing process. Know you are beautiful and strong and will get through this. And know that you can take as long as it takes to do so. You're worth it.
I drink tea. And I love High Tea. And I love wearing a hat. I know that in England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales both men and women take time for tea but here a High Tea is most often a ladies' event. My friend Pam's daughter just announced her engagement and as she studied in England, High Tea seems an appropriate bridal shower theme. For the sake of research, Pam and I made a reservation for High Tea at Eleanor's Tea Cottage in Troy, Ohio.
This was a true High Tea, beginning with fruit, then scones with real cream and fresh jam, followed by a delicious chicken divan soup, then chicken salad, pimento cheese, and cucumber sandwiches, and finishing with lemon pie and chocolate peanut butter cupcakes topped with with crunchy little bird nests filled with tiny eggs.
A sweet little pansy topped the whipped cream
Three kinds of sandwiches
Charming little nest cake toppers
Our hostess was gracious and skilled, allowing us time to enjoy each delicious course and feel completely pampered. It was a delight to pause, savor a friendship, and plan a shower for a lovely young woman.
About wearing a hat... My mother used to say, "Wear a hat, you'll feel better." I remember seeing a large group of women of a certain age all decked out in purple outfits and red hats at an Olive Garden restaurant. These ladies were talking and laughing and living out loud. They made me smile. They were, of course, members of a Red Hat Society inspired by the first two lines in the poem Warning by Jenny Joseph, "When I'm an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me." For my mother's 91st birthday we had a tea party and asked the ladies to bring their favorite tea cup and to wear their best hat. There were some pretty extravagant hats because many of these gals attend the Kentucky Derby, a hat lovers' paradise. My mom wore a shocking pink, petaled hat that she designed and made herself. Now that I'm sixty maybe it's time to let my creativity loose on my hat selections. And when better than to debut a new hat than at a High Tea!
In December 2009, while shopping at a lovely artist's boutique at the DVAC Gallery for Christmas gifts for my creative kindred spirits, I discovered the fused glass jewelry of Diane Zubrickandfell in love with this pendant and bought it for myself. I've since worn it quite often. I love the idea of having a travel permit, or passport, entitling me to a creative journey.
Last week my friend, Jewels, noticed it and asked to take a closer look. She handed it back to me casually mentioning how appropriate it is that the return fare is 60, as in Sensuously Sixty, and the final words are, "Find your way." I never put that together. Here I am, at sixty, finding my way. Perfect.
I think I'm in love. I'm facilitating (they say moderating) a seminar, Let Me Tell You about the Time: An Introduction to Lifewriting at the University of Dayton Lifelong Learning Institute. This is my first time volunteering to moderate a seminar. In the past, I've taught students from preschool age to the doctoral level so I'm comfortable teaching. But this is a teaching situation distinct from all my prior experience.
You must be fifty years of age or older to attend UDLLI. There are no assignments and no grades. People register for seminars based on their interests, period. And, if the seminar is not what they expected, they simply withdraw. Attendance is not mandatory; several folks told me on the very first day which of the six sessions they would miss. I was a bit jealous when I learned these missed classes frequently involved travel, often to warm, sunny places. These are lovely, well-educated, sophisticated men and women. While exceedingly polite, they make it quite clear what they are willing or not willing to do for the class.
At first I worried about this new paradigm. Learning for leaning's sake? Taking a seminar as much for the social interaction as for the topic? Once I relaxed a bit I found this the most refreshing and invigorating atmosphere. My original plan was to have everyone complete at least one life story and then publish an anthology of these stories at the end of the six weeks. Um, no. Some folks wanted their story in a handwritten document. Some wanted it typed but not published. Some wanted to incorporate photos and artifacts. Some wanted to write for their own pleasure and did not particularly care about sharing their writing. But what stories they have to tell! The eight men and six women, ranging in age from fifty-seven to late eighties, are writing about life experiences that keep me captivated each and every Tuesday.
Class thus far has included some strategy tips, some writing prompts, and some time to write followed by sharing. My favorite part of the two hour class is when they read from their work. Each sharing prompts a flood of responses and questions from the group. Their descriptions of the setting and era of the tale combined with the experience they chose to share fold us all into the memory.
Last week they brought photographs and mementoes that related to their story. One gentleman had pictures of himself right after enlistment and right after returning from battle. What a story those pictures told. One class member brought in some 45 rpm records from his collection and explained how you could tell the age of the record from the label design. Plus, oh those songs! Made me want to jump up and dance. One beautiful album with a hand tooled leather cover showed a class member's parents from their wedding through her early years. Another person's photo of himself dressed as Santa with his granddaughter was the spring board for the tale of how he first began to dress as Santa, in a costume made by his wife, and how that lead to years of Santa experiences.
This week, we are going to play with six word memoirs. I introduced the concept last class so folks could think ahead. One of the men immediately composed a five word memoir. A classmate promptly jumped in with the sixth word for a perfect finish and a roar of laughter and approval from us all. I'm looking forward to the next session to hear what else is composed.
I have no idea what the finished class projects will be. Each person's product, if any, will reflect his or her desire. I only know that I have fallen in love with a vibrant group of writers who are taking me to school as to what really matters and I am so grateful!
