Saying Good-Bye

“Looking back, I can still experience the pain I once felt.  But it’s the looking back that tells me how I have grown.” –from Opening Our Hearts/Transforming Our Losses

I’ve heard more than once that we say good-bye the way we live our lives.  I guess that makes sense.  As I think back on some of my more significant good-byes, I see my good-bye themes have changed.  I like to think the change is representative of the way I’ve changed in my approach to life.

Other than the death of pets, saying good-bye to my best friend was my first tough loss.  She left for college and I stayed behind to attend and drop out of a local junior college.  Being left was a hard blow to my self-esteem at the time and even today still makes me sad.  Not only was I going to be without my major support, but I suppose I felt leaveable.  That feeling, or theme stayed with me when, at a time I was most needy due to a failing marriage, my adult friends left in rapid succession.  I added the blows, one by one, to my already low self-worth and kept silent in my pain and shame.  With each disappearing act, it became more believable that I could be leaveable.

I know this is all drenched in the stench of self-pity.  It’s true, and I guess that was definitely my MO as a kid and young adult.  Weak and futile attempts to reach out only served to silence me more and rack up my pile of hurts. 

 

I’m not sure how or when I changed.  Maybe my attitude changed when I started being the leaver instead of the left.  Divorce, breaking up relationships, ending jobs all started with confusion and guilt but finally I found a resounding confidence that I was doing the right thing for everyone.  It takes courage to change, and I think I got it from baby steps and recognizing my own little successes.

The people who leave me now are students who graduate.  I love saying good-bye, getting choked up, feeling sad and happy and privileged to have been a part of their success.  My tears are about my own success as well.  I feel that same way about my son who is leaving for two years to study in Shanghai.  His success is partly my success.  Although I’m going to miss him terribly (he’s my even-ater and my computer guru), I’m so excited for the adventures and learning that he’ll meet with courage and competence.

The hardest good-bye, of course, was in December when my mom died.  It didn’t rock my self-esteem; I don’t feel leaveable.  And I’m trying now to feel the privilege of knowing my mother, of being raised by her, and of still learning from her.  I know she suffered in her life and still was able to love and want the best for her kids.  She valued our happiness more than anyone could.  I hope I can learn to be that kind of mother.

A year ago I made a commitment to write one blog entry a week for a year.  It’s been a privilege to share my reflections and recipes and hear back from friends and family. I say good-bye to this project and this way of connecting to others with a sense of success and a feeling of loss.  I will definitely miss positive comments and your reflections. I’ll have to muster the courage to face alone the silent black holes of publishing houses.  I’ll also miss the grappling with issues each week that helped me see things more clearly.  When I taught fourth and fifth grade, I told the kids my motto: Live by the pen, you’ll always have a friend.  Writing is a friend that helps me reflect, dive deeper and make connections I might not have otherwise seen. 

Now onward to new projects, new commitments and new dishes.  But one last recipe in case you’re itching for something light to take to a pot luck this summer:

Couscous Salad

1 10 oz. box of plain couscous

2 c. chicken or vegetable stock

1 large cucumber quartered and sliced

1 red pepper chopped small

1 can garbanzo beans (optional, as is everything, right?)

1 bunch cilantro, cleaned and chopped

1 lemon or more

½ c. pine nuts

1 tub of feta cheese

Salt, pepper and cumin to taste

Follow the directions on the box to cook couscous in stock.  Let it cool and add all other ingredients, using lemon and spices to your liking.  Keep cool until you have the privilege of serving. 

It has been my great privilege serving these reflections and recipes. 

I hope you’ve taken what you liked and left the rest.

Lindsay

Highlights and Lowlights

"When it's dark enough you can see the stars." Ralph Waldo Emerson

My hair stylist suggests that I get lowlights to highlight my highlights. I've always questioned her wisdom on this because, as far as I'm concerned, I have plenty of low lights. But spending these days in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming, I see her point. I left for this trip on low light, not only because at 4:00 the sun isn't up, but I left feeling the stress of a home full of people and dogs with not a single day alone to prepare for this trip. And I wasn't handling it well. I've been advised by many to HALT when I'm Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. I was all of those the night before my trip, well, with the exception of lonely--I could have used a bit of lonely--but I didn't halt. I was short and impatient.

And so I started this trip in regret and resentment, a surefire damper on the other two r's I was seeking: rest and relaxation. And speaking of dampers, nothing like a thunder storm my first night to put a damper on my leaky tent and all of its contents, including me. Drip, drip, drip on my feet, either side of me, and a couple of light splashes on my face before the rain finally stops. I sleep lightly trying to avoid the puddles, but, if you've ever been camping, you know how slippery a sleeping bag is. I wake several times in the night and early in the morning, stiff, slipped and damp. What was I thinking? Why don' I have one of those gas guzzling dry RV's that I scoff at?

But after this dismal lowlight, I wake to the sun bedazzling the green pines, the blue sky and contrasting white clouds and hope returns. Everything dries out and I spend the next two sunny, dry days following Prune Creek, on one side the first day, then the other the second day. Both hikes couldn't be more perfect. The snaking river is beautiful and inviting. I take a half bath and sit on a rock to dry until some fishermen approach and I get my pants back on. The valley is green and glorious. I see a marmot and her three babies, the four of us curious and watchful. I watch two people fly fishing on the river while an osprey flies overhead. All this couldn't be more perfect, right? Wrong. Nothing is really touching me like it usually does. I am restless, uncertain, inhibited, indecisive, flat. Should I hop onto those rocks on the river? Should I swim? I'd like to climb those boulders. Nah. Should I eat my sandwich now or save it for a sunny spot? Yeah, yeah, it is all so beautiful. I've seen beautiful. I keep searching for more. It's like eating a bland, unhealthy meal that I overeat to make up for low quality.

Even at my campsite I'm restless and indecisive. I need to go to the trunk to get . . . no, first I should collect some water from the river . . . no I need my dirty pot from the . . . no wait, I should first lock the car . . . the keys are back on the table. Everything takes longer due to indecision, three steps this and two steps another way. This restless searching is a real lowlight. I feel like a failure. I'm not making good use of this trip alone. Those two R's, resentment and regret are blocking my view.

On the evening of that second hike, after writing in my journal, which I've rarely taken time to do in the past seven months, help arrives. I write about all my frustrations and come to this: Of course I'm in a bad way. I remember two of my friends who helped me with those words: "Of course." The memory of those friends who are on my side and help me see the of course is such a gift. I feel less like a bad person for feeling as I have. I also realize that I hadn't taken much time or space for my relationship with God. For me, God is a space in my heart that I get to in prayer. I thank God for helping me get somewhere this evening. Then I buy a bottle of wine from a smokey bar and have a glass in front of my fire to celebrate my highlight.

The next morning, I feel more restful. I write in my journal:

The stillness of nature is helping me be more still. Robins are singing just like at home, but no one is asking anything of me. On this Independence Day I'm independent, not co-dependent. That word hits me hard. I'd never thought of myself as co-dependent.

Again I feel like a failure and suddenly I miss my mom. My tears bring me closer to God, closer to my heart, closer to the moment and the world I am in.

I turn to my journal:

Listening, smelling, not looking for, but just looking, all come when I'm still. Thank you, God.

I pack for a hike and take off to climb a hill. Climbing boulders is an adventure. I'm off the beaten path, off any path for that matter, and loving the challenge. Nearly at the top I sit on a boulder and sing the first word of a song, "Listen. Listen God is calling," when right then, the sound of the wind wells up and travels through the lodge poles from left, in front of me and to the right. I listen and I watch. I think it's God telling me I'm in the right place and I'm okay. I cry knowing I'm okay. I love my climb.

The next morning I wake to an overcast sky,  I take a long drive to a dirt road for another long and bumpy ride where signs are scarce. I slow for a deer in the road and she leaps up from all fours and I laugh. I remember as a little girl seeing three deer do that in Wyoming with my family and I giggled and giggled. My mom got such a kick out of my reaction. She'd bring it up from time to time. I find the trailhead and hike three miles to Bucking Mule Falls. All these green hills and suddenly there is a vast valley protected by craggy, enormous rocky cliffs, stanchions serious and complex. A waterfall higher than any I've ever seen is etched out of rocky crevices that don't end. It is so magnificent and I can't take it in. I'm tired on my way back but decide to take another path, thinking it's only a mile to the base of the falls. About a mile in the forest opens up to the small meadow dotted with yellows and pinks and purples and I see a deer the minute she sees me. I gasp. She runs across the path in front of me. I watch and feel it is a special moment. I press on farther until I realize this path is one that goes on another ten miles. I head back, very tired and miss my mom. I remember her saying to me about a year before she died, "I want to live long enough to see how Casey turns out. I want to see how Kate turns out." And I think, or I like to think, she is watching. I cry, "I wish you could help me with Casey, Mom." This lowlight feels like a highlight. I have this time and space to grieve.

The next morning after sleeping in the car because it rains all night and my tent, well, you know, I write and cry and blow my nose and write and cry some more. I come to a new level of grief. My mom was the person who knew me and understood me, who valued my laughter and my singing and accepted me. I know I have a new loneliness to contend with. In the evening I walk and whisper, "I wish you were here, Mom." Moments later I see a deer near my campsite. She watches me from a short distance. I watch her. And I think maybe it's my mom. This happens the next morning again. Sure, people see deer all the time, but they don't think it's the spirit of their lost mother. I do. And maybe it sounds hokey to you, but a whole lot of American Indians would disagree. I take comfort when I see a deer and know my mom was a dear.

On this last day in the Bighorn Mountains, I know I have made good use of my time alone. During my last hike I am touched by the beauty around me. I watch and listen and take time to be still. On my way back along a serene lake I gasp. Finally, after six days I see a moose only about forty feet in front of me. He's a big bull moose with a huge set of antlers. He looks at me and I hope I've given him enough space. Okay, you're probably wondering what dead person I think he is. Well, he does have a strong resemblance to my paternal grandmother.

I'm of course grateful for the highlights of this alone time, but I'm also grateful for the lowlights that open me up like the vast valley hidden in the green hills and make space to be touched by the colors, whispers of God and deer.

And now, on my sixth and last morning of camping alone, six days without washing my hair, I emerge from my tent, with lowlights and highlights, dazzling. I am grateful for the wisdom of my hair stylist.

 I cooked a delicious camping meal that was even better the second day after marinating in the trunk of the car all day. Of course at home you won't have the troubles I had unsuccessfully balancing a pot on a little butterfly camp stove. You'll also have more spices available to spiff it up. I don't, however, suggest putting it in your trunk for a day.

Tempeh with Mushrooms, Zucchini and Yellow Squash over Orzo 1
/2 onion chopped
1/2 cake of tempeh
small package of crimini mushrooms
1 zucchini, sliced and chopped
1 yellow squash sliced and chopped l
ots of olive oil
orrzo, cooked in a jet boiler, or just on the stove
salt and pepper to taste

Just cook it all as fast as you can and add anything else you want to cover up the taste of the tempeh, maybe a little tamari would do. If it turns out lousy, trust that this lowlight will be followed by a real highlight of a dinner some other time.

Loving Lisa

My niece Lisa is forty three years old and has a mental handicap.  But then, doesn’t everyone?  In some ways she’s a genius and I learn something important from her example each time she comes to stay with me.  When she studied my face at her departure gate yesterday, she said, “Are you going to cry?  Why are you crying?” and hugged me, I felt so sorry for any aggravation I’d expressed during her two week stay. The fact is, I felt regret every time I showed my frustration with her.  But, like she frequently said to me, “I can’t help it.”  I learned this time that my limitations in some ways are similar hers. 

When I think of loving Lisa, the word loving jumps back and forth from a verb to an adjective.  Sometimes loving Lisa is easy when she’s not burping or snorting or coughing abruptly or farting and saying, “Excuse me!” with surprise in spite of the constancy of her very loud offenses.  Sometimes loving Lisa is easy when she’s not hunkered down over her food with one focus, chewing double time, stuffing the next bite in before the previous one is barely moist, tearing her food apart with her dainty fingers, saying “oops” every once in a while when she drops a glob on her lap or the floor.  Sometimes loving Lisa is easy when she isn’t off to the playground in the morning to meet little ones, her water bottle filled with tea and margarita mix—complete with tequila.  Really, loving Lisa, or anyone for that matter, is a whole lot easier when I accept their limitations and mine.

Loving Lisa is curious and friendly. She can make six phone calls in a day, asking friends and family about their lives.  She walks up to complete strangers and asks them about their baby, or their pregnancy, the name of their dog or the beer they’re drinking.  She gives compliments to passersby. “I like your shirt.”  Lisa introduced me to my own next door neighbor.  She asks neighbors and visitors if they have brothers and sisters, how old they are, if they’re married, if they go to school, what they’re studying.  When given an answer she doesn’t understand, she may ask what it means, or she may just say, “Hm.”   I can’t tell you how many first dates I’ve been on where the man couldn’t seem to come up with one question about me.  Even when directed to ask about me, they cop out with, “Uh, I don’t know.  What do you want to tell me about yourself?”  Lisa asks me in the morning how I slept.  She asks me if I’m tired.  She asks me if I’ve ever had the same experience she’s had.  She asks me what I like, what I don’t like, and if I’m going to get my haircut soon.  With Lisa I feel part of the conversation, part of the relationship. I feel connected and valued.

Loving Lisa is sensitive and compassionate.  Beyond her understanding pat reply: “I know,” when I complain about the hard work of installing blinds in 90 degree heat, Lisa really feels for peoples’ struggles.  She asked our friend how she was feeling.  When the friend said she was having a hard time, Lisa asked, “You feel left out?  Lost?”  Exactly.

Loving Lisa is filled with music.  No matter what radio station she turns to in the car, she sings along.  I think she knows every song ever preformed.  She yawns and sings at the same time, on key. Try it.  That’s no easy task.  She has great pitch and a beautiful voice.  She has to sing.  At the movies she sang along with the opening song.  Later that evening we watched TV and she sang along with the background music.  She woke up yesterday morning singing “It’s a sha-a-ame: the way you mess around with your man.”  When I joined in she giggled.  We both sang the song periodically throughout the day. Lisa also has to dance.  At the outdoor concerts she wiggled her shoulders so fluidly, without thinking, like they were watery instruments.  And speaking of water, she has that same fluidity when she swims, gliding without effort, queen of the pool from one spot to another, apparently without a destination or goal.  Similarly, when she dances it’s without sha-a-ame, judgment or a goal of looking good and being seen.  She just moves.  She just floats.  She just delights in the feel of music and water.  And when I dance with her, I let go of my own other-consciousness and delight in the feel of being lost loving loving Lisa in our little wiggly bubble.

Loving Lisa is courageous.  In spite of others being frustrated with her, calling her stupid or retarded, or in spite of my useless scoldings about eating unhealthy or sneaking margaritas, candy, mints, prunes, an entire package of rice cakes, Lisa manages to come out feeling okay about herself.  She says, “I’m not stupid.  I’m smart and I’m independent.”  And she’s right. 

Loving Lisa has a delicate touch.  I love Lisa’s graceful, dainty hands.  She touches her phone, her laces, her lotion, me, and especially her food with delicacy.  She softly rubs my shoulder and brushes my hair back with her hand. “You need a haircut, huh?” Or “You have a pimple, huh?”  And here I am, pimply, bushy me, being delicately caressed. And I receive the rare blessing of feeling a little lovely and delicate.

When I’m in the middle of lecturing Lisa and she says “I know; I can’t help it,” I know that lecturing is useless and a waste of my energy.  I also know I’m lately overextended and I can say the same thing she says: “I know; I can’t help it.”  When I’m at my best, I can more clearly think about better ways to set Lisa and me up for success.  But loving Lisa is forgiving.  I see it instantly and I go back to loving Lisa—from adjective to verb.

People talk about different intelligences.  Lisa is a genius when it comes to social and physical intelligence.  She has forgiven me for being frustrated time and time again with her.  She taught me about my own handicap.  She demonstrated acceptance of her limitations and of mine.  In her genius she helped me share in a more mutual relationship, both with our faults, irritations and ill moods.

We have one more thing in common: food!  We both love to eat.  We just look different doing it.  But I believe I’m almost as consumed by food as she is.  Every day she would plan out what she would eat in the next hour, evening, morning, minute.  She wrote me a note one afternoon: “Would you wake me up at 8:30 or 9:00.  I want to make scrambled eggs if that’s okay with you.”  Every day she wanted salad for lunch, and sometimes for dinner.  Instead of a recipe, which doesn’t fit my unique niece, here is what we agreed would go in our salad nearly every day, all organic, of course:

·         Mixed greens

·         Green beans

·         Cucumber

·         Jicama

·         Grapes

·         Steamed yellow beets

·         Julienne sliced carrots

·         Grated sweet potatoes

·         Red, yellow and orange peppers

·         Avocado

·         Black beans

·         Sprinkling of hemp seeds

Lisa covered hers with ranch dressing while I poured a little olive oil on mine and sprinkled in salt, pepper—“I like pepper too.  Can I have some?”—and other spices.  We munched away, me with fork in hand, her with salad in hand.

Yes, I cried seeing her off, hoping the person on the plane next to her wouldn’t be too annoyed by her munching, finger licking, burping and hiccoughing.  I cried because I felt bad for being frustrated.  But she hugged me and continued to love me.  I cried because she’s loving Lisa.