Last summer I traveled “up north” after recently relocating to Florida. I had a scheduled doctor’s appointment, and combined it with visits to friends and family, people I no longer get to see on a regular basis and who really know me. Having moved 3 times in 3 years, I had lost a connection to a place I could call “home”. As I drove through the rolling hills of north Jersey (some might call the setting bucolic), I felt a stirring I could only describe as “coming home”. I had spent most of my life there, from high school through adulthood, and it’s the place I identify when someone asks where I’m from.

I find that as I get older moving becomes more challenging; it’s no longer an adventure or an opportunity to explore new places. It seems to be more of an inconvenience, more exhausting. Of course much of that depends on perspective, which also seems to change as I age. When our family had the opportunity to move to Colorado back in 2004 it was exciting. There was a lot of apprehension, of course, about moving our household across the country where we knew no one and had not spent more than a few days house hunting. The first year there I admit I was homesick for the east coast way of life that had been my comfort zone for over 40 years. But we moved as a family, with all 3 of our children. I didn’t work the first year we were there, and really tried to create a “home”. We got connected in a church, and involved in school activities and sports. After living there for 6 years it had really become home.

We returned to the northeast after a visit with my parents revealed they were getting less able to be independent; not wanting to miss out on what might be their final years, we began plans to move back “home”. Home had become synonymous with family. The timing seemed right, as our middle child was getting ready to graduate from high school. Unfortunately, my mother passed away unexpectedly just a few months before our move, and the move took on an entirely new meaning.

We moved back into the same lake community which we had lived in before going out west, expecting it to still give that sense of comfort and familiarity; however, a lot had changed in the time we were gone and it no longer felt like “home”. Even the church we had been a part of was vastly different and no longer provided the spiritual safety net we depended on in challenging times. Sure, we still had some close friends and family nearby, and we did our best to get involved in community and to make our house a “home”. But expecting it to be the way it had been seemed to create a bit of a blindspot.

There are multitudes of articles and discussions on the idea of home. In an article in Psychology Today dated 11/4/21, Roni Beth Tower, Ph.D., wrote an extensive commentary on “The Meaning of Home”, addressing in part the changes to the idea of “home” that came about as a result of the world wide pandemic. She spoke about different aspects of home, one of which was referred to as “attachment of memory”. In citing an earlier article on attachment theory, she wrote: “home includes primary locations where early memories and their emotions result in attachment scripts and their consequences. A sense of belonging securely or less so persists into adulthood or until changes in unconscious expectations make room for revised understanding” (Simpson, J.A. & Rholes, W.S. (1998) Attachment Theory and Close Relationships, N.Y., Guilford Press). Tower also issued a caveat about the meaning of home- it does not always signify a “happy place”. She mentioned an installment at the Whitney Museum in Connecticut in 1986-1987 which showed the “dark side of home”, stating that “reality often fails to match a desire or wish”.

So I wonder- is my searching for a sense of “home” just wishful thinking? Perhaps I have been relying on those “attachment scripts” to fulfill that inner desire to find comfort in a home. I made that annual trip “up north” again about a month ago. I drove through those same rolling hills and yet I was not filled with the sense of coming home that I had felt in the past. I did, however, spend some precious although brief time with family- helping my youngest pack up his apartment to prepare a move to his new home; dinner and a nostalgic ice cream date with my daughter; time spent with each of my siblings; coffee in two different states with dear friends. (For me, coffee often represents home).

Returning to Florida (where I now live with my husband, so we call it “home”), I reflected on that trip as well as on the relationships I have built here in the last 18 months, and have come up with a different idea of home- the idea that it’s not so much a physical place or environment, but it’s made up of those experiences and relationships, constantly changing as my expectations change.

Plenty of well known authors have quipped about home: T.S. Eliot said “Home is where one starts from”; Robert Frost, possibly tongue in cheek, said that “Home is the place that, when you go there, they have to let you in”; I think my favorite one, though, comes from Aleksander Hemon, author of The Lazarus Project- “Home is where somebody notices when you are no longer there”.

I don’t know why it’s taken me a year to complete this post; it’s not as if the concept is that deep that it requires extensive research. I think it’s just taken a while for my expectations of home to line up with the realities of my changing environment- not just physically but emotionally and spiritually as well. Perhaps all this overthinking about “home” has led me to miss out on the gifts right in front of me these past few years.

Proverbs 24:3-4 says “By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; by knowledge the rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures” (NIV). Hopefully I have gained some wisdom in my 6+ decades of life, and can use that wisdom to build a home, wherever I am; I try each day to show love and understanding instead of my go-to criticism or cynicism that the harsh world outside my home seems to demand; and those “rare and beautiful treasures”? Those are easy to identify- the smell of sauce and meatballs on a Sunday afternoon or pies on Thanksgiving; watching our kids create their own “Christmas pizzas” for nearly 20 years; family cornhole tournaments in my sister’s yard or preparing holiday meals together; sharing a good cup of coffee with friends around a dining room table.

And cherishing each of those treasures is what I’ve come to undestand is home for me. As Hemon says “Home is the memory palace of the soul”. For today, my heart is full.

Sometimes it takes a while for me to “get it”, even when the same message comes up day after day. And then there are times, more often than not, that I read something, and jot it in my journal as a thought for a blog post, but never go back and finish the thought.  In this case, it’s a little of both.  The last few months have been a little chaotic, between selling a house, packing and moving (déjà vu?), and a bunch of other various and assorted life events; even now, I’m sitting here surrounded by boxes that need to be unpacked, hearing every creak and noise in this unfamiliar house, and thinking “I don’t have time to write anything”.  But as often the case, I don’t write for accolades or recognition or even to be read.  It helps me process the jumbled thoughts that I have allowed to run rampant in my mind.  And as I recently read (not for the first time) in a little book called Practicing His Presence, written in the 1600’s by a monk named Brother Laurence: “Your useless thoughts spoil everything.  That is where the mischief begins.”

Those “useless thoughts” can spoil an entire day; they are usually thoughts about things over which I have no control or circumstances I have no hope of changing just by thinking.  And though I haven’t ever used the word “mischief” to describe the result of all that overthinking, it certainly applies.  Nothing but trouble comes about as a result of all that thinking.

       About two months ago I had the familiar experience of the same phrase or word coming up in one of my morning readings several days in a row.  First it was Psalm 37, one of my favorites, reminding me “do not fret because of those who are evil or be envious of those who do wrong; (v. 1).  “Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret– it only causes harm” (v. 8).  It’s a psalm I’ve turned to many times for comfort because it reminds me to trust, and to rest.  At times, reading it has the desired effect, and I can find a bit of rest.  But sometimes I need repeated reminders.  The very next day the word “fret” came up again, this time in a very different reading in a very different book.  It said “I know that love and trust are the solvents for the worry and frets of life… I pray that frets and impatience and worry may not corrode my protective screen against all evil thoughts” (Twenty Four hours a Day) 

The use of “frets” as a noun instead of a verb stirred up the word nerd in me.  And then there was that reference to evil thoughts and worry.  So of course I had to head to the dictionary to find all the definitions of the word “fret”, other than the one I was most familiar with from my years fumbling at playing the guitar.  According to the Oxford dictionary, fret means “the action of wearing away (erosion) or the agitation of mind (irritation).  As a verb, it means “to eat into something, to wear or corrode; to become vexed or worried.”  It’s also used when talking about water- “fretting” a channel, as when a stream wears away the ground in its path, or fretting (agitating) the surface of a lake- causing ripples.  That visual of water wearing down whatever is in its path really nailed it for me; such an apt description of what I have been allowing these “useless thoughts” to do to my otherwise good life.

I have a little wooden plaque that stood on the counter in my mother’s kitchen, and which holds the same place of honor in mine (3 different kitchens in as many years).  It says “Worry is the interest you pay on trouble before you have it”.  My kids laugh at my corny “mom-isms”, but this one rings true for me lately.  So with all these messages about how much trouble this constant worrying and fretting can cause, why do I (and others, I’m sure) continue to do it?  Why continue to do anything that is guaranteed to have negative consequences?

For me it always comes back to what I learned long ago in the painful ego-puncturing process known as sobriety- “self-centered fear- primarily fear that we would lose something we already possessed or would fail to get something we demanded.” (Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, p. 76).  Those losses are not always physical things, but people, relationships, emotional securities.  And what person doesn’t have a plan or an idea of how they would like their life to be?  I can soften the word “demand” and substitute “desire”, but it all comes down to the same thing- I’m afraid of losing control, afraid something “bad” will happen to one of my children or my husband or my family, afraid the God of my understanding won’t produce the answers to my prayers (worries) that I think they should have.

As I was finishing this post up this morning I received a phone call from a dear friend.  She was calling to tell me that one of her adult sons had unexpectedly passed away.  She was, of course, heart broken and said she went back and forth between keeping busy making arrangements, making phone calls and trusting in God’s sovereignty; and feeling that she couldn’t go on.  I told her I had no words, and could only imagine the devastation she was feeling, of course feeding into that fretting and worrying I experience about my own children.  She wisely pointed out that often that is our first reaction- we personalize those feelings as a way of empathizing with others who are suffering.  As much as I grieve for her and her heartbreak, I see an opportunity to take those “useless” thoughts and turn them for good.  So for today I will try to turn that fretting into compassion and empathy; to use my own struggles and my endurance of them as an encouragement to others who may be going through similar trials.  I will not let my thoughts wear down the gratitude I have for the simple things, and will try to acknowledge that sometimes it takes repeated “fretting” to create a stream or a waterfall, that not all my thoughts are bad or evil, and that sitting in that place of worry and self-centered fear is just that- selfish.  It impedes my usefulness to others and robs me of a day or an hour where I might come alongside someone who needs it, or to see the beauty in my surroundings instead of complaining about the parts I can’t control. 

And perhaps I will take that guitar down off the wall where it hangs and use those frets as they were intended.

Sometimes it takes a while for me to “get it”, even when the same message comes up day after day. And then there are times, more often than not, that I read something, and jot it in my journal as a thought for a blog post, but never go back and finish the thought.  In this case, it’s a little of both.  The last few months have been a little chaotic, between selling a house, packing and moving (déjà vu?), and a bunch of other various and assorted live events; even now, I’m sitting here surrounded by boxes that need to be unpacked, hearing every creak and noise in this unfamiliar house, and thinking “I don’t have time to write anything”.  But as often the case, I don’t write for accolades or recognition or even to be read.  It helps me process the jumbled thoughts that I have allowed to run rampant in my mind.  And as I recently read (not for the first time) in a little book called Practicing His Presence, written in the 1600’s by a monk named Brother Laurence: “Your useless thoughts spoil everything.  That is where the mischief begins.”

Those “useless thoughts” can spoil an entire day; they are usually thoughts about things over which I have no control or circumstances I have no hop of changing just by thinking.  And though I haven’t ever used the word “mischief” to describe the result of all that overthinking, it certainly applies.  Nothing but trouble comes about as a result of all that thinking.

       About two months ago I had the familiar experience of the same phrase or word coming up in one of my morning readings several days in a row.  First it was Psalm 37, one of my favorites, reminding me “do not fret because of those who are evil or be envious of those who do wrong; (v. 1).  “Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret– it only causes harm” (v. 8).  It’s a psalm I’ve turned to many times for comfort because it reminds me to trust, and to rest.  At times, reading it has the desired effect, and I can find a bit of rest.  But sometimes I need repeated reminders.  The very next day the word “fret” came up again, this time in a very different reading in a very different book.  It said “I know that love and trust are the solvents for the worry and frets of life… I pray that frets and impatience and worry may not corrode my protective screen against all evil thoughts” (Twenty Four hours a Day) 

The use of “frets” as a noun instead of a verb stirred up the word nerd in me.  And then there was that reference to evil thoughts and worry.  So of course I had to head to the dictionary to find all the definitions of the word “fret”, other than the one I was most familiar with from my years fumbling at playing the guitar.  According to the Oxford dictionary, fret means “the action of wearing away (erosion) or the agitation of mind (irritation).  As a verb, it means “to eat into something, to wear or corrode; to become vexed or worried.”  It’s also used when talking about water- “fretting” a channel, as when a stream wears away the ground in its path, or fretting (agitating) the surface of a lake- causing ripples.  That visual of water wearing down whatever is in its path really nailed it for me; such an apt description of what I have been allowing these “useless thoughts” to do to my otherwise good life.

I have a little wooden plaque that stood on the counter in my mother’s kitchen, and which holds the same place of honor in mine (3 different kitchens in as many years).  It says “Worry is the interest you pay on trouble before you have it”.  My kids laugh at my corny “mom-isms”, but this one rings true for me lately.  So with all these messages about how much trouble this constant worrying and fretting can cause, why do I (and others, I’m sure) continue to do it?  Why continue to do anything that is guaranteed to have negative consequences?

For me it always comes back to what I learned long ago in the painful ego-puncturing process known as sobriety- “self-centered fear- primarily fear that we would lose something we already possessed or would fail to get something we demanded.” (Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, p. 76).  Those losses are not always physical things, but people, relationships, emotional securities.  And what person doesn’t have a plan or an idea of how they would like their life to be?  I can soften the word “demand” and substitute “desire”, but it all comes down to the same thing- I’m afraid of losing control, afraid something “bad” will happen to one of my children or my husband or my family, afraid the God of my understanding won’t produce the answers to my prayers (worries) that I think they should have.

As I was finishing this post up this morning I received a phone call from a dear friend.  She was calling to tell me that one of her adult sons had unexpectedly passed away.  She was, of course, heart broken and said she went back and forth between keeping busy making arrangements, making phone calls and trusting in God’s sovereignty; and feeling that she couldn’t go on.  I told her I had no words, and could only imagine the devastation she was feeling, of course feeding into that fretting and worrying I experience about my own children.  She wisely pointed out that often that is our first reaction- we personalize those feelings as a way of empathizing with others who are suffering.  As much as I grieve for her and her heartbreak, I see an opportunity to take those “useless” thoughts and turn them for good.  So for today I will try to turn that fretting into compassion and empathy; to use my own struggles and my endurance of them as an encouragement to others who may be going through similar trials.  I will not let my thoughts wear down the gratitude I have for the simple things, and will try to acknowledge that sometimes it takes repeated “fretting” to create a stream or a waterfall, that not all my thoughts are bad or evil, and that sitting in that place of worry and self-centered fear is just that- selfish.  It impedes my usefulness to others and robs me of a day or an hour where I might come alongside someone who needs it, or to see the beauty in my surroundings instead of complaining about the parts I can’t control. 

And perhaps I will take that guitar down off the wall where it hangs and use those frets as they were intended.

This was never the life I imagined for myself. It’s a far cry from playing piano in a smoky piano bar, which was what I often dreamed of doing after college. Of course, I disregarded the fact that my keyboard skills were adequate for accompanying the chorus in my small parochial high school in rural north Jersey, but probably were not going to support me full time in the real world.  But that’s what separates dreams from real life, I guess.

But to end up here, 45 years removed from that piano bar fantasy- well I didn’t see it coming. Not any of it.

I sometimes save interesting or intriguing thoughts in a note app on my phone. I re-read one recently that contained this “reflection” question: What personal limitations—physical, spiritual, emotional—make me wistful?” That, of course, sent me to find the definition of wistful – “having or showing a feeling of vague or regretful longing.”

Vague or regretful longing. Kind of describes how I feel, looking back on the life I’ve lived and being surprised at where I am. Not a shocked surprise or astonishment, but more like the feeling you have coming out of light sedation and trying to figure out where you are.

Wistful. I feel that word sums up most of my life, as if I was always just a little bit off course yet I couldn’t quite figure out how to get back on track.  And those “limitations”- well that’s the real conundrum; the reasons for that winding, wandering course.  There were the times when confronted with decisions that I was either emotionally unsure or spiritually a bit “off the beam”, and those opportunities slipped by; and now, at 66 years old, the physical limitations play a huge role in the choices I make, resulting in that sense of wistfulness.

The piano bar dream was exchanged for the coffee shop dream (the change in focus predicated largely on the switch to a sober lifestyle; piano bars are not really conducive to sobriety).  Then there was the bed and breakfast in Maine.  This latter plan would have been a clear attempt to escape, to run away from the grief I was experiencing after the death of my husband while I was expecting our second child.  But there are still days, over 30 years later, I wonder “what if…”

I’m not saying that I’m disappointed in my life, or that I regret the choices I’ve made which have placed me where I am today.  I don’t think that’s what “wistfulness” is.  I remarried after that loss, had another child, and have a good life.  I’ve been married for over 25 years to a wonderful man who has been a devoted father to our children.  Even though we married later in life, we have grown up together, and continue to hone our relationship with grace and compromise.  I’ve had a career as an attorney, and have worked as a substitute teacher, as an adoption worker, as a support person in a special needs classroom, and even did a stint as a barista. I never envisioned myself as a wife and mother, but those have been my most rewarding roles to date, as well as the most challenging.  When I say I never pictured this life I don’t mean I regret it.  I think the key component of wistfulness is the vagueness; the longing you can’t really put your finger on.

I had to laugh to myself as I was writing this, and Jackson Browne’s song “These Days” came on my Pandora station.  The lyrics are so descriptive of a wistful life: “Well I’ve been out walking.  I don’t do that much talking these days….These days I seem to think a lot about the things that I forgot to do

And all the times I had the chance to….”

I guess I’ve been thinking about the things I had the chance to do but didn’t because of those “limitations”.  Mostly times when I could have been kinder, when I could have shown someone more grace and forgiveness, when I could have been less judgmental and more compassionate; about the times when I let fear or selfish desires get in the way of doing.    

That reading I referenced earlier goes on to ask this question: “What do I hope to do for God that I think requires more strength than he is able to give me?” (Oswald Chambers, The Place of Help). It really comes down to this- Those limitations are often self-imposed excuses for not doing those things I have the chance to do.  When I start to think I need to prove myself or accomplish things entirely on my own strength in order to have worth, then I have those feelings of regret or wistfulness. 

As I prepare to enter into an entirely new “season” of my life (some of you know I really dislike that term, so I use it tongue in cheek), I’m acutely aware of feeling wistful.  I am realizing that I no longer have to prove anything or accomplish wildly remarkable things to be useful.  And I don’t have to walk through any of it alone, as I have learned time and time again in this journey called life.  I have family and community, and the God of my understanding will certainly equip me with any strength I think I’m lacking, if only I ask.

I’m not saying any of to sound morbid; I rather like the feeling of wistfulness, but I don’t want to regret. I think being wistful involves letting go of past dreams and desires in order to make room for new ones; regret involves hanging on.

 I read a few different things recently about being able to laugh, and I really want that.  Lysa Terkeurst posted about, after going through a few difficult years, that she’s surprised about how “honest (her) laughter is now”.  Suzie Eller, in her book Prayer Starters, talks about “laughter that is deep and authentic”  and I want that too.  That’s what makes me wistful.  I must remind myself to “wear the world as a loose garment”, today and each day, and not miss those opportunities to laugh honestly, deeply, authentically.  And to be a woman whose “strength and dignity are her clothing”, who “laughs without fear of the future” (Prov. 31:25).

Blindsided again by Facebook “memories”.  I’ve really been making an effort the last few months to make good use of my days, to not waste them.  I’ve tried to be disciplined about starting my day with a dedicated quiet time, reading and journaling.  I’ve tried to end my day without the phone or television, reflecting on what’s gone well and what needs improvement, both in my thoughts and actions.  These are spiritual practices I’ve honed and refined over the years, borrowing from my recovery community, mentors, and even the Jesuits and their timeless use of the “Examen”, explained as an attitude, a “time set aside for thankful reflection on where God is in your everyday life”. (Ingatianspirituality.com).

And yet, I wake up most mornings just as exhausted as when I went to bed, anxious about the day, fearful.  My FitBit shows me a sleep score which is usually in the fair-good range, but I don’t feel rested.  Some days I fight the urge to stay in my pajamas and watch the latest binge-worthy find on BritBox while devouring an entire package of cookies or a pint of ice cream.  That may be an acceptable use of a day once in a while, but I keep trying to figure out why these feelings are becoming more and more frequent in spite of my efforts to overcome them.

And then I open up Facebook, and I’m greeted by “4 years ago on this day…”.  I look at the photos attached to that post in disbelief.  Not that the memories are bad or disturbing; in fact, they’re delightful- a trip to Wyoming, returning Jacob to school after Christmas break; a ride outside of Laramie to find a bakery in the middle of nowhere and, of course, a little coffee shop; a classic old Chevy pickup for sale out in a field.  But it’s the timing of that post- 4 years ago- and the realization of all that’s happened since-that really brings me up short, knocks the wind out of me.  No wonder I’m so exhausted and weary all the time!  

Almost 2 years ago (April 2020) I wrote a blog post about Facebook memories and how depressing they can be, especially in the midst of a pandemic that lingered much longer than expected, making us long for those things and people we once took for granted.  Now, almost 2 years later, still impacted to a degree by living life amid a pandemic, those Facebook memories have stirred different yet equally as troubling emotions.

Like waves that relentlessly batter me while I try to get my footing, the past several years have barely allowed time to breath, never mind rest.  

January 2018 – One year removed from a cancer diagnosis; 6 months out from chemo and radiation.

May 2019 – youngest son graduates from college; daughter diagnosed with breast cancer.

December 2019 – daughter’s cancer surgery; oh, and then a pandemic.

September 2020- husband starts new job resulting from closing of company (because of the ongoing pandemic).

October 2020- start of “retirement” (resulting from being forced to move)

November 2020- moved to new city.

December 2020- Christmas in an apartment, while “zooming” with family.

March 2021 – first of two knee replacement surgeries; sale of home.

May 2021- purchase of a new home, and the “work” begins.

July 2021- second knee replacement surgery, move to new home.

September 2021- older son gets married- in Tennessee.

To most people, this might look like a chronicle of a very normal life- illness, moving, weddings, graduations.  But when I list it out as if it were those memories on social media I really do have to step back a bit.  I don’t want to sound like I’m whining; I’m not looking for canonization or martyrdom here.  But people, really, it’s a LOT!  And in 4 years time.  Seriously?

For someone who has spent the better part of 4 decades trying to live “one day at a time”, who has taken to heart the teaching that says “Teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Ps. 90:12), attempting to take each day as a separate unit full of its own unique usefulness is very much like trying to stand upright in the wake of those oncoming waves.  And expecting to do it without getting wet is really foolish.

I’m not saying I plan on abandoning the “one day at a time” mantra that I have lived by for 36+ years.  But I do need to remember that the lessons in those days are often cumulative.  I can look back on the past 4 years, or the past 10 or 20 for that matter, and acknowledge the challenges and the hard days; I can be grateful that I have come through somewhat worse for wear, a little drenched at times, but still standing; I can cherish days like that day in Wyoming or the other pleasant memories that Facebook might throw at me on any given day; and I can cautiously look ahead with hope at making new memories, not projecting the worse case scenario, which is really what living a day at a time is all about.

I am only responsible for my thoughts and my actions today.  I don’t need to let the weight of the past 4 years, or even the past week, to weigh me down and make me weary.  I can allow myself a few of those days spent in my pajamas in front of the tv as long as I am also seeking to learn from the other days in that string of years that might not be as pleasant.  

Psalm 90 also says “For a thousand years in your sight are but as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night.  You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream, like grass that is renewed in the morning: in the morning it flourishes and is renewed; in the evening it fades and withers… The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away… Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days” (v. 4-6, 10, 14).  

I’m not sure if all this rambling makes sense or brings any comfort,  I mean, who wants to have their life compared to grass that withers or is swept away.  But I’m choosing, just for today, to number my days, not by Facebook memories or by allowing myself to be overwhelmed by the entirety of it all, but by rejoicing in each new day, seeking to be renewed in spite of what may have happened yesterday or by the prospect of withering by evening. I am grateful that God’s mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23).

“You’re so strong!”  “You’re the strongest woman I know!”  “You’re so resilient”.  These are comments I often hear from friends and family, particularly after making it through a difficult time in my life.  Cancer. Loss of a loved one.  Surgery.  And as is often the case when I pass through a significant milestone in my existence (e.g., a “big” birthday, another year of sobriety), my sometimes over-active mind starts to reflect on the rapidly changing backdrop of those events.  I wonder how I managed to navigate all that’s happened in just the past 5 years.  Some would say it’s a result of my strength; I think I’m just stubborn.

Five years ago I celebrated what I considered a significant birthday.  My daughter arranged a beautiful party, and I was surrounded by a room full of women who knew me best and had walked with me through different phases of my 60 years.  I’m pretty sure I dropped some hints about wanting a party, even though I usually don’t like being the center of attention.  But the venue and the guests were all her doing, and I was incredibly moved by the outpouring of love and validation I received.  Little did I know that just a month or so later I would receive a cancer diagnosis that would define the next year of my life, and as such would bring more of those affirmations of my alleged “strength”.  

But as I sit here 5 years later and “reflect” (ruminate really), I don’t think strength had anything to do with it.  Most days I feel like a puddle of self-pity, stuck in a swirl of uncertainty while trying to keep up the façade I’ve managed to somehow create of being a strong, resilient woman.

It seems that these past 5 years were full of challenges which would overwhelm even the strongest of women: not only my cancer diagnosis, but my daughter’s (which was far more serious than mine); a pandemic that resulted in my husband’s company closing, forcing not one but 2 moves in less than a year; the sale of a home; the involuntary loss of a job;  two knee surgeries; and even happy events like the wedding of a son, joyful yet not without its own measure of stress.  And yet, here I am.

Most of these events didn’t occur in a vacuum.  They all have underlying impacts which may not be apparent on the surface.  30 years ago, while participating in a bereavement group, those “secondary losses” were pointed out as a significant part of grieving.  I believe the events of the past five years carry with them the same ancillary impacts: mortality; loss of purpose which comes from not working; loneliness resulting from leaving the familiar circle of friends and family, at least geographically; the necessity of acknowledging physical limitations.

I was raised to think that perseverance and self-reliance were the cornerstones of success.  Everything was a matter of “will power”, from my eating habits to my grades in school, and even my need for sleep (being tired was just a “state of mind”, according to JM; it was mind over matter).  That whole concept was flipped on its head when I got sober and learned that “self will run riot” was the cause of most of my problems.  Self-reliance went out the window, and I had to learn a whole new vocabulary.  Strength in weakness; dependence not defiance; reliance on others and on a power greater than myself.  Much to my surprise, and in spite of my cynicism, it worked.  I was able to face situations that I never imagined I could and come through the other side; not necessarily unscathed, but not destroyed or devastated.  And to many, that looked like strength.

I haven’t written much this past year, other than a post about not being able to write, and part of that is not feeling as if I had much to share; no words of wisdom to impart.  But perhaps it’s even more important to write during times like this.  To show that sometimes personal strength isn’t necessary to survive, just a prideful stubbornness to hang on and defy illness, controversy, pandemics, and the many other events which I have no control over.  Acknowledging that lack of control is often the starting point for healing a dark night of the soul.  

There’s a song by Lauren Daigle which she released earlier this year called “Hold On to Me”.  Part of the lyrics are: “Hold on to me when it’s too dark to see you, when I am sure I have reached the end.  Hold on to me when I forget I need you.  When I let go, hold me again.”  Perhaps I need to look at the events of the past several years and be reminded that even when I forget I don’t have to be strong and self-sufficient and I try to tough it out to show how strong I am, when I forget to ask for help because I think it’s a sign of weakness, there is something or someone holding me.  Some call it a Higher Power or Spirit of the Universe.  I call it God.  And that’s where the real strength is.  My stubbornness and pride are just the tools that tide me over until I remember that there is no shame in surrender, in holding on.

LANGUISHING OR JUST LAZY

(SOME THOUGHTS ON WRITER’S BLOCK)

I have a file filled with papers my parents saved over the years, mostly of my academic “achievements”, report cards, newspaper clippings and the like.  Among those papers is a fifth grade report card which contains the following handwritten comment: “Pamela is an excellent student who needs to put forth more effort.  She is inclined to be lazy.”  So there it is.  The label that attached itself to me at 10 years old and has been there ever since.  Sometimes it’s been the source of my self-deprecation; but more often than not it’s become a convenient excuse for when I fall into what I may call a funk, a slump, or more seriously a “dark night of the soul”.

Of course, I’m not implying that Mrs. MacNaughton is the source of self-doubt into my sixth decade of life.  A life which has been, for the most part, marked with a large amount of productivity and even success.  But the label of “lazy” often nags at me like the tag in the neck of a shirt when I try to determine the reason for my inability to write in the last 6 months or so.  And not only writing, but pretty much the lack of doing anything that one might consider productive.

As I spent time contemplating this recently (which really means I was overthinking, overanalyzing, and obsessing about it) I read a devotional by Lysa Terkeurst about “languishing”. (Seeing Beautiful Again, p. 133).  The subject matter which she wrote about was about being in a time of uncertainty during a difficult period in her life.  But the word itself caught my attention, as did the bible verse she cited: Psalm 6:2-3-

“Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing; heal me, O Lord, for my bones are troubled.  My soul also is greatly troubled.  But you, O Lord – how long?” (ESV)

This started me down an etymological rabbit hole on the word itself.  And I was surprised to find that not only is it a word that so aptly describes my current state of laziness, it has become recognized as a condition in the mental health field, falling somewhere between depression and flourishing.  Corey Keyes, a sociologist from Emery University, defined languishing as “not depression or sadness, but rather the ‘absence of feeling good about your life’” (from an interview on WBUR on May 4, 2021, and posted by Robin Young and Serena McMahon- “Living, but not flourishing: The Pandemic-Fueled feeling known as ‘Languishing’”)

Languishing is also the lack of meaning, purpose or belonging in life, which leads to emptiness, lack of emotion and stagnation (Adam Grant, New York Times April 21, 2021).  The dictionary definition is “to become feeble, weak or enervated; to be or live in a state of depression or decreasing vitality; to become dispirited”. 

There’s a word from the French which has a similar meaning – ennui.  It’s a more poetic word for “boredom”; but not just ordinary boredom.  More the type of boredom which results from living a life of ease. Poet Charles Lloyd described ennui as “a soul-destroying fiend” which visits with its “pale unrest the chambers of the human breast where too much happiness has fixed its home” (Stanzas to Ennui, 1823).  While I would hardly describe life (mine or that of others) in the past year as a life of ease or too much happiness, my current mood can certainly be described as dispirited, listless, soul-destroying.

So what does any of this have to do with my alleged “writer’s block”.  Maybe nothing.  I often use the rationale that my writing is not that interesting to others anyway, so why bother; or that it’s just a self-serving form of catharsis, sometimes called “word vomit”, a way to just purge my feelings and move on.  Maybe the idea of languishing is just a fancier word for laziness, a trendy excuse that I can fall back on times when I feel completely unmotivated to write and share my feelings, even though they are abundant and swirling in tornado-like fashion in my mind. 

I do know that I felt a tiny bit of justification when I read that, according to Keyes, about 12% of the population currently suffers from languishing, yet another phenomenon resulting from a year-long pandemic.  I can add a long list of events in my personal life which can further justify my feelings of being overwhelmed and thus immobilized -moving, knee surgery, selling and buying a house, not working.  Things which aren’t necessarily “bad” or negative, but certainly emotional.

Whatever the reason for the current funk I find myself in, I do know I don’t want to stay here.  I chose a word at the start of the year to be my focus, an idea suggested by an on-line community I follow.  The idea was to find a verse or comment at least weekly which spoke to that word and use it as encouragement.  My word for this year was “hope”.  I have, as with all the other disciplines in my life, failed miserably making it a weekly exercise to pray and meditate and write on that word.  Truthfully, it’s been months since I’ve even pretended to do that.  But in the last week or so I’ve had glimpses of what it might look like.  Silly as it may seem, finding a word which so perfectly describes my mood has given me hope.  Being part of an on-line community of women I don’t even know but who are similarly struggling has motivated me a bit. (Thanks Suzie Eller for telling me “write that blog post sister!”)  Being able to visit with family has helped the feeling of isolation I have had, although I still sometimes feel like a “stranger in a strange land”. 

Meditation has long been a practice I have used to start my day, to try and begin my day in a positive frame of mind.  My struggles in the past 6 months have resulted partly from the former “routine” of my days being disrupted and distorted to the point where there is no longer a recognizable routine.  Instead of the anticipation of the day’s tasks being the source of anxiety, the quiet of nighttime and the anticipation of insomnia have taken its place.  Recently I have tried to end my day by turning off the television and finding something to meditate on before going to bed in an attempt to ward off those sleep-robbing thoughts.  There are nights that it works, that I am able to repeat a verse or a phrase until I fall asleep.  And that gives me hope.

The psalm that I cited at the beginning of this goes on to say “I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping.” Ps 6:6.  I am grateful that I have not reached that depth of despair.  I don’t know if I am to the point of saying and believing “The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord accepts my prayer” (Ps. 6:9).  But I am starting to hope, to have some focus in the midst of the fog, hope that I am moving from languishing to flourishing.  Perhaps flourishing is too optimistic; but I’m no longer choosing to have laziness as a label that keeps me hopeless.  And I am moving toward believing, once again, that “You who have made me see many troubles and calamities will revive me again; from the depths of the earth you will bring me up again.  You will increase my greatness and comfort me again” (Ps. 71:20-21)

My kids used to think I was cool when I said I was a hippie.  Growing up in the sixties and seventies, I lived through the Civil Rights movement and experienced racial integration of schools, the Vietnam war, Woodstock (although I was too young to attend), and so much of the social unrest that gave rise to the “hippie” movement.  In high school, I played a lot of Joan Baez and Bob Dylan on the guitar (although listening to Joan Baez albums was frowned upon in my house).  I wore peasant tops or dresses, huarache sandals, and even wore baby’s breath in my hair at my first wedding instead of the traditional gown and veil. I grabbed onto the “peace and love” mantra and rebelled against my “too strict” moralistic upbringing, claiming it suffocated my desire to be a free spirit.

            Truth be told, I was terrified to really be a “free spirit”.  I didn’t have enough self-confidence to be outspoken about my beliefs on social issues.  I was also too afraid to experiment with much of the drug culture that was such a part of the hippie lifestyle.  I loved the idea of hippiedom and what it stood for; but looking back now, some 40 years and a somewhat harsh lifetime later, I think a lot of it was about the clothes.

            I still struggle with having the confidence to speak out.  I’ve spent so many years wanting to “fit in”, worrying about people liking me, even wanting my kids to think I was “cool”, that I never showed my true self to anyone.  And now, at 64 years old, I’m almost ashamed to admit that I’m still on a journey of discovery, still trying to figure out who I am.

            Which is a lot different than who I want to be. 

            I have always held to the habit of journaling, at least since my early 20’s.  (Before that, I just wrote tortured poetry and envisioned myself as the next version of Sylvia Plath, sans suicide).  When I go back and read those earlier journals (yes, I still have them) they sound like the rantings of a drunken madwoman, self-absorbed to the max, which is mostly what they were.  There’s no redeeming literary quality, no great insight into the human existence, no real focus.   Just whining, really.

            In my later years, my journaling has taken a somewhat different path.  My journals over the past 30 some odd years are more of a sorting out of spiritual beliefs. I left behind the vague spirituality of hippiedom and mother earth and had moved into the world of self-sufficiency and intellectual knowledge.  When that path also failed me, I finally surrendered to the idea of a higher power, the concept of which has evolved over time, as reflected in the boxes of journals now stacked up randomly in a storage unit in New Jersey.

            A few of those journals escaped being boxed up, and I came across one recently from around 10 years ago.  What struck me when I read through it was that my life circumstances were similar (preparing to move), and my writing reflected a lot of the same discouragement and disillusionment, both with life in general and with myself as a “spiritually mature Christian”.  Somewhat of a disappointment, actually, that I continue to fall short of my self-imagined growth.

            I know that word “Christian” doesn’t have positive connotations, especially recently.  It certainly isn’t considered “cool”, and is even considered hypocritical and vile by some.  I’m hesitant to even identify myself by that term in the current climate, and prefer to think of myself as a Jesus follower: someone who relies on the grace of a loving God to get her through the ups and downs of daily life.  A woman who does “nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility counts others more significant than herself” (Phil. 2:3); who does “all things without grumbling or disputing, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation” (2:15-16).  But here’s the thing- that’s the person I WANT to be.  As I read through the years of ramblings collected in these journals, as I read through what I wrote just last week, I sill find myself a far cry from the person I want to be.  But I do know who I am not.

            I am no longer an unhinged self-centered woman driven solely by emotions and a misguided sense of entitlement.  The peace and love I seek today is no longer just a cultural incantation hoping to bring about social change; it’s a “peace that passes understanding” and a love that “casts out fear” and “surpasses knowledge”.

            I still like the clothes.  But I wear them today because they’re comfortable, not because they make a statement.  My kids may not think I’m “cool”, but they know without a doubt that I love them in spite of my numerous missteps as a parent.  And I may not be the woman I want to be, but I am content to be open to learn and willing to acknowledge those areas that still need some tweaking. 

            And just as a footnote, this is in no way an attempt to elicit accolades or encouragement, or to have anyone tell me I’m cool.  In fact, those types of comments make me uncomfortable.  I write and share only as an extension of my self-contained journaling, and to perhaps encourage others that we never really arrive at some worldly or spiritual perception of success, and that’s okay.  We just walk a day at a time, sometimes haltingly, sometimes even stumbling, but getting up to do it again the next day.  Hoping those days, however many I’m given, make a little bit of difference.

Peace out-

Facebook memories.  A blessing and a curse.  Never in a million years could I have anticipated the wide spectrum of emotions they would evoke, vacillating between joy and sorrow.  And never did I expect a world-wide virus to become fodder for a blog post.  In fact, I have been stubbornly refusing to let it be so, convincing myself that to use this pandemic as a writing prompt would be succumbing to the hysteria that I see playing out in the news and on social media.  But on days like today, the pendulum swings more to the sorrow side.  In fact, the grief is palpable.

Pam Marone Ahlstrand checked in to The Colonial Theatre.

April 1, 2017 at 7:39 PM · Phoenixville ·

Livingston Taylor

 Pam Marone Ahlstrand

April 1, 2016 at 9:47 AM ·

On the road again. Heading to OM States in Pittsburgh!

Pam Marone Ahlstrand is with Jacob Ahlstrand at MoMA The Museum of Modern Art.

April 1, 2015 at 1:09 PM · New York, NY ·

City day with the youngest
☺

Pam Marone Ahlstrand

April 1, 2013 at 8:45 PM ·

Great day with Jacob Ahlstrand at the Met…

 

Ordinarily, these memories would make me smile; they were recorded, complete with photos, to do just that at a later date.  But today, and for the past few weeks, these social media memories lead me to a place of anxiety such as I have never known.  There are moments of overwhelming fear that these simple pleasures – museums, concerts, trips- are events that shall forever be relegated to Facebook “memories”. There are moments when I let my thoughts do that negative cascading thing that psychologists warn against, and I’m convinced I will never again set foot inside a museum or enjoy the sounds of a live concert.

The most difficult thing about these last few weeks is the longing I have to see my children.  Not just see them, but spend time, share a meal, a hug. I listened to someone share earlier today in a Zoom meeting (which has become my new normal for social contact) that he drove over an hour today to see his daughter and grandson, and spend time “visiting” from the driveway, aching to give them a hug.  I so related to that! We have had to cancel planned visits from our sons; stay far from our immunocompromised daughter; abandon any plans of a family Easter gathering (although my sister has already put plans in motion for a virtual Easter beer hunt).

I know I am not alone in all this. I mean, my losses are merely inconveniences compared to the real tragedies many are enduring. But there are days, moments really, when this is really hard.  I keep coming back to the place I was almost a year ago, not understanding God’s plan, doubting his goodness, screaming “But God!” once again.  It’s exhausting.

When I shared that post (has it really been 9 months?!), I was climbing out of a place of doubt and despondency to a place of trust and dependency.  I clung to that promise that my faith would not be shipwrecked in a storm (S Eller).  I had certainly weathered many “storms” in the past.

This latest storm hasn’t left me shipwrecked either (although I do feel as if I am stranded on a deserted island most days).  The fact that it seem to come out of nowhere, especially when I was getting back into a somewhat better spiritual frame of mind did remind me of being out on a small boat off the coast of Maine and having a sudden wave swamp the boat. One minute we were laughing and enjoying being out on the water; the next minute I saw my husband’s eyes fill with fear that his new wife and two young children were going to be tossed into Casco Bay.

But just because I felt blindsided, I was reminded recently that God is not at all surprised by what is happening.  In fact, not only did God know this would happen, he also knew how I would feel. (Isaiah 46: 9, 10) (Psalm 139:1-16) My overwhelming sense of sadness is not new to Him; he has seen me go through times of “suffering” before, and he “keeps track of all my sorrows…collects all my tears in his bottle.  Records each one in his book” (Ps. 56:8).  What an incredible visual at a time like this!

God is aware of all my memories, Facebook and otherwise.  I can trust him to remind me that my boat may be swamped, but not shipwrecked.  All I need to do is look back on all the times he’s bailed me out in the past. Literally and figuratively.

So I will continue to gather memories as they come, even though they may be in the form of Zoom family meetings and group text messages for now.  And I will continue to trust the one who “stretched out the heavens and trampled the waves of the sea” (Job 9:8).  There may be days when I add more tears to that bottle, but this too shall pass.  And I know I can look forward to the day when I don’t have to blow kisses to my children on a computer screen.

 

(above photo credit Pinterest.com)