Posts Tagged ‘midlife reinvention’
Cindy on August 18th, 2011
Are we halfway through August already? Since “back to school” is the topic of the week (and I’m still on sabbatical), I’m sharing a piece I wrote for MetroParent not long after my son flew off to college….
Field notes on an empty nest
Last week I found a bird’s nest on the brick walk leading to our backyard. I’m guessing the nest fell from a nearby silver maple; or maybe a neighbor found it while jogging and left it by the garden gate for us to admire.
Not much larger than a cereal bowl, the nest now perches indoors on a shelf near my desk. Crafted from hundreds of delicate twigs, strands of grass, and patches of moss, it’s truly a work of art — and a timely reminder to prepare for my son’s return to college after the long summer break.
Children of baby boomers are heading off to college in greater numbers than children of previous generations. At the same time, the age-old ritual of “letting go” is the final frontier for those of us who’ve made child rearing a major focus of our adult lives.
I’ve been discussing this tender rite of passage with other middle-aged parents. And we all agree there has to be a better term to describe our next season of parenting – something that doesn’t sound as final or forlorn as “The Empty Nest.” Our nests, after all, are not completely empty. Not yet. My only child, for example, still has a bedroom here at home in addition to a loft in a crowded dormitory four hours away in South Bend, Indiana.
Whatever you want to call it, this to-and-from college phase is a thorny adjustment for parents and their almost-adult kids. College students are bound to ignore house rules when they return home for summer and holiday breaks. (“Curfew? What curfew?”) Even the most agreeable families discover that this can be a volatile time – a time when teen-aged tempers ignite and middle-aged feelings get scorched. All said and done, we’re all learning how to grow up and move on.
“When mothers talk about the depression of the empty nest, they’re not mourning the passing of all those wet towels on the floor, or the music that numbs your teeth…. They’re upset because they’ve gone from supervisor of a child’s life to a spectator. It’s like being the vice president of the United States.” — Erma Bombeck
A lot has changed since my son started college. I’m still adjusting to the hollow echo of his (oddly) clean and empty bedroom, looking for remnants of my old self — my mothering self — in the bits and pieces he left behind. The family calendar in our kitchen has some blank spaces, too, and is no longer buried under neon-color sticky notes announcing band concerts, Quiz Bowl meets, school conferences, and carpool schedules. At first, this was not cause for celebration. I’d become what our high school mothers’ club affectionately refers to as one of the “Alumni Moms.”
While I suddenly found myself with unlimited bolts of time to devote to my marriage and writing career, I mourned what I perceived to be the loss of my role as a hands-on parent. Despite the fact that I had a cleaner, quieter house, I missed all the athletic shoes and flip-flops piled near the back door. I missed the boisterous teenagers gathered around the kitchen counter, or in front of the television downstairs. I missed bumping into other parents at school functions, and wondered if life would ever be the same.
Life isn’t the same, but I’m OK with that now. I’ve come to realize that a mom is always a mom, even though her parenting role changes over time.
Not long ago, I stayed at my own mother’s place for a few weeks while I recovered from major surgery. When I apologized for disrupting her normal routine, she said, “My home will always be your home, too.” I found comfort in knowing that. Yet at the same time, I missed my own house. And I felt grateful that Mom had encouraged me, years ago, to craft a life — and a home — of my own.
It’s hard to believe my son is packing for another year of college this week. The hall outside his bedroom is now an obstacle course of boxes, crates, and suitcases stuffed with everything he needs for the months ahead. I’m still not very good at saying good-bye when his dad and I leave him at the dorm and steer our emptied SUV back to the expressway. I manage to compose myself until I notice the tearful parents of college freshmen going through this ritual for the first time. But it does get easier each term.
So, is the nest half-full or half empty?
Reflecting on the small bird’s nest perched near my desk, I’ve come to believe that every family is a labor of love and a work in progress. It’s a bittersweet adjustment, but I’m at peace with the idea that our household is just one stop on our son’s way to his future. He’ll be flying back and forth over the next couple of years or so. And hopefully, patience and love will be the threads that weave our family together, no matter how far he travels. – Cindy La Ferle, September 2006
– Top photo: Detail from “Nature,” a mixed-media collage by Cindy La Ferle. Bottom photo (nest) by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on August 10th, 2011
Life is the sum of all your choices.” ~Albert Camus
I’m a little envious of friends and neighbors who have summer cottages in northern Michigan, where I’m always considered a tourist (or “fudgie”) no matter how often I visit.
Regardless, the opportunity to collect a few beach stones for my garden in suburban Detroit remains a highlight of my regular escapes to the shores of Lake Michigan. And while summer is quickly drawing to its close, we’ve still got a few precious weeks left to comb our Michigan coasts for treasure.
What to look for
A longtime collector, I’ve learned through experience that morning is the best time to hunt for beautiful beach stones. The water is usually calm, my outlook is refreshed, and, if I’m really lucky, my fellow beachcombers are still asleep. Rising with the sun, I get first pick of the gems that washed ashore.
If you’re planning a visit to northwest Michigan’s shores, I’d advise you to keep an eye out for exceptional Petoskey stones, which seem to be getting rare these days. But don’t overlook the subtle luster of milky quartz or the chance to grab a handful of perfect skipping stones that were tumbled smooth by the waves.
Look closely, and you might find stones imprinted with fossils, some bearing an uncanny resemblance to ancient tablets carved with runes or hieroglyphics. Others are miniature works of art, which you’d swear had been painted by an Asian calligrapher. As many Michigan jewelers have already discovered, some of these beauties are worthy of stringing on a necklace.
During a recent visit to the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore, it occurred to me that collecting beach stones is a bit like crafting a life: You have to remain grounded and focused, yet always open to new possibilities.
Choices and more choices
For starters, you need deep pockets to contain your bounty. And you must begin the quest believing you’ll be rewarded with more than you bargained for.
If you focus solely on the obvious (Petoskey stones, for instance) you’ll miss the other jewels of the lake. In my search for something rare or perfect, I’ve nearly overlooked more humble specimens of beauty and character. As every seasoned beachcomber knows, the rippling water teases like a mirage, making it hard to see things as they really are. I’ve rescued many stones that looked tempting under water, but were lackluster when they dried in the sun. Some were merely pieces of beach glass.
The “rules” for collecting beach stones apply to choosing what’s essential in life: good friends, a supportive partner, the right school, a career path, community, and a place (or two) to call home. In other words, it’s wise to make your choices slowly and carefully; to consider what feels right, lasting, and true.
As the cliché goes, it’s also possible to have too much of a good thing — and beach stones are no exception. After a week at the beach, I always end up with too many choices, and have to edit my finds to an exemplary few. Otherwise, I’d need a gravel truck to haul them back to Royal Oak.
I need to practice discernment at home, too. Given my acquisitive nature, I tend to hang on to things longer than I should: outdated clothing, grudges, hairstyles, broken tools, toxic relationships, canned goods, and political opinions — just for starters. And over the years I’ve tolerated too many things I should have protested: mindless television shows, junk food, incivility, unfair wages, sarcastic remarks, and degrading articles in women’s magazines.
Wandering the shore in the afternoon of my own life, I ask myself: How much of what I buy do I really need? Which relationships deserve more (or less) of my attention? How can I make better use of my time and the blessings I’ve been given?
What’s really essential now?
Collecting beach stones, I’m reminded that the second half of life offers the freedom to choose again — to polish, edit, refine, and reconsider. Or, as Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes in her memoir of a summer sabbatical, Gift from the Sea: “One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much.”
It’s a worthy but challenging lesson to bring back to the suburbs.
_______________
– Parts of this essay were excerpted from Writing Home. The book is available on Amazon.com and at the Yellow Door Art Market in Berkley. –
Top photo: Lake Michigan beach at LeBear Resort, Glen Arbor. Bottom photo: Stones from my garden in Royal Oak. Both photos by Cindy La Ferle.
Cindy on August 1st, 2011
I was in the midst of a hugely profound change and I wasn’t altogether sure of who I would be when the process was complete.” — Donna Henes, The Queen of Myself
I finally figured out what I need to do next. The light dawned while I was weeding the small Japanese garden at the rear of our property.
As most gardeners know, a well-tended Japanese garden should serve as a contemplative oasis. Simple and sparse, it is, ideally, the antithesis of a fussy English cottage garden. In a Japanese garden — especially a Zen meditation garden — you must take time to prune what you’ve planted and resist the temptation to add anything new. Less is more.
Earlier this season, however, my own Japanese garden was overgrown, its open spaces obscured by weeds and perennial grasses gone wild. Emotionally exhausted, I hadn’t been able to muster the enthusiasm to work outside in the heat and humidity – despite the fact that this particular garden is my favorite back-yard escape.
But last month, after pushing myself outdoors to pull the tangle of weeds blocking the view of my granite Buddha figure, I realized it was time to weed out my own life as well.
For starters, it hit me that I need to stop berating myself for “not doing enough” — whether it’s caring for loved ones or trying to rebuild my career. I’ve spent the past three years micro-managing my elderly mother’s medical care in addition to my own obligations. I need to take better care of myself — and accept my own limitations.
It also occurred to me that this isn’t the time to pile on new career goals or projects. It’s time to stop pouring my time and energy into dead-end assignments that offer little reward in return. It’s time to clear some space. It’s time to get clear. Period.
Not long after my weeding session in the garden, I stumbled on two remarkable books offering fresh perspective on facing midlife transition and nurturing creative growth. (Don’t you love how some books fall into your hands when you really need them?) I’ll be reviewing both books in more detail later on. But in the meantime, I’d like to share the titles and some brief description, in case you too are in need of a creative jump-start this summer.
The first guide, The Queen of My Self: Stepping into Sovereignty in Midlife, by Donna Henes (Monarch Press; $16.95), found its way to me as a review copy. As I began the reading it, I couldn’t help but think of the author as a wise fairy godmother who arrived just in time to sprinkle a few beams of light on my path. (She even wears a crown in some of her promotional pieces.)
I discovered the second book, The Artist’s Rule: Nurturing Your Creative Soul with Monastic Wisdom, by Christine Valters Paintner (Sorin Books; $14.95), while shopping on Amazon.com. Since I’ve always been attracted to books that explore monastic wisdom, this title lured me immediately. The author draws on the insights of Benedictine spirituality to explore the relationship between the monk and the artist, reminding us that we all need time to reflect in our own “monastery” – i.e., creative solitude — in order to reach our highest potential as writers, gardeners, poets, musicians, painters, or simply as “artists of the everyday.”
Or, as Donna Henes writes in The Queen of Myself, “A practice of solitude and separation – be it occasional, frequent, or constant – teaches us that we do not need the approval or permission of any outside source to validate our personal experience or emotions. In knowing who we are, we are empowering ourselves to know what we know and feel what we feel.”
With all of this in mind, I am spending the month of August on a creative sabbatical – the best birthday present I can possibly give myself. If I need more time, I will continue the sabbatical through September.
A creative sabbatical requires a change in attitude and routine – but it really isn’t a vacation or an escape. And it isn’t a fancy permission slip to hang out and do nothing. Often used by corporate management as a tool to prevent burnout, a sabbatical is a time of exploration, inner work, and, hopefully, rebirth. It is a time to stop spinning our worn-out wheels and to approach everything with what the Buddhists refer to as “Beginner’s Mind.”
Of course, the very idea of a sabbatical works against the way I’ve been operating for years. Like most Americans, I was raised to believe that if you “keep busy” you won’t have time to be depressed or stressed; that you must keep all lines moving. Eventually, though, something’s gotta give.
During my creative sabbatical, I’ll work on several exercises outlined in the two books mentioned, and will be seeking additional resources as well. Periodically, I’ll return here to post some thoughts from my journal as well as insights I’ve gleaned from my studies. With the exception of a deadline I’m obligated to meet, I won’t be submitting columns or articles to other web sites or publications.
Throughout August, I will reflect and journal privately on several key questions, including: Why do I write? Why do I identify or label myself as a writer? For whom am I writing and publishing my work? How much is my work worth or what should I earn from it? Should I follow another career path entirely? What other creative avenues have I neglected — and which ones do I most need to explore? What is the best use of my creative gifts, or where and how do I need to serve? What’s really blocking my path? – CL
– All garden photos by Cindy La Ferle. Please click on each image for a larger view. –
Cindy on June 26th, 2011
To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” — Henri Bergson
It’s so much easier to stay rooted in the same place, whether it’s a desk chair or an old neighborhood. Or even a toxic relationship.
Once we nestle into our proverbial comfort zone, it takes work to pull ourselves up to the next level or move to a better place.
Staying in a rut has its benefits. Even when we know we deserve more, for instance, we tend to justify earning low wages while working at jobs we’ve already mastered. We tell ourselves that the economy is lousy; that we’re lucky to have any job with pathetic wages. We lower our expectations.
Likewise, instead of seeking out healthier relationships, it might feel safer to put up with neglect or abuse from friends or relatives who’ve been part of our history. Or we keep performing the same family “roles” we outgrew ages ago. (Victim? Competitor? Big brother? Benefactor? Brat?)
Change is hard, and asking for what we need takes courage. It also requires that we take risks and face what scares us. Is there a new door you’ve been waiting to open? Are you leaning your ladder against the wrong wall? –CL
– Photo: detail from “What We Remember”, a mixed-media construction by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on September 5th, 2010
Midlife is a time to listen deeply to your heart, a period of transition and reappraisal.” — Carl Jung
I have a hunch that fall is arriving early. Maybe it’s the angle of sunlight on the last of the black-eyed Susans in my perennial garden. Or maybe it was the sound of berries and acorns crunching under my bicycle tires on the nature trails yesterday.
Whatever triggered it, I can’t ignore the maternal instinct to shop for back-to-school supplies – even though I don’t have a student to buy them for.
My only child did exactly what all parents hope their kids will do. He grew up. He attended the university of his choice, then started a grown-up’s job just two months after commencement ceremonies. His dad and I helped him pack up the car, headed with him down the expressway, and waved a tearful good-bye in front of a small flat in Chicago after we unloaded the last piece of stereo equipment.
That was two years ago. But sometimes I struggle to get my mind around the fact that I’m officially an empty nester now.
Watching the younger moms in my neighborhood – the ones buying new Crayolas and lunch kits – I recall the exhilarating sense of freedom I’d get when my son started school each year. In those days, it was a blessing to have six quiet hours a day to meet writing deadlines and run errands all by myself. At the time, the calendar on our kitchen wall was scribbled top to bottom with kid-related events and appointments – a perpetual list of band concerts, school conferences, homeroom baking marathons, and carpool schedules. Not to mention all the medical appointments for my pending hip-replacement surgeries.
I still can’t fathom how any mother finds the time to do it all — no matter how many kids she has. In any event, I’m not sure how I kept my own balance on the roller-coaster ride we call “the parenting years.” But I did, and sometimes I really miss those years.
Retiring or redefining?
It took several months to regain equilibrium after my son first left for college in 2004. His bedroom at home looked so eerily clean and empty that I made a habit of keeping the door shut. Until then, I hadn’t fully realized that the career I’d loved most — more than writing or publishing or teaching — was being a mom. It caught me off-guard, like a thunderstorm on the freeway, or the tears that roll unexpectedly when you catch the lyrics of an old song on the radio while you’re driving.
So I had to figure out where to devote my enthusiasm in this uncharted phase of my midlife.
My relationship with my husband was (and always will be) at the top of my priority list. And yes, I’d have more time to devote to writing and long lunches with friends. But I also needed to explore something creative and different. Something just for myself.
The ancient ritual of buying school supplies provided my very first clue — and I’m sharing it with the hope that every empty nester who’s reading this will look for the bread crumbs on the path leading to her own passion.
The inner artist emerges
I was browsing at the office supply store with my son a week before he moved into his freshman dorm. While he wandered the computer aisles in search of an essential gizmo, I was magically drawn to a rainbow display of felt-tipped calligraphy pens, colored pencils, and drawing pads. My inner artist, who’d been hushed and banished to a corner of my psyche after I graduated from college, pushed forward and made herself heard. At the time I wasn’t sure what she’d do with all those pens and markers, but she refused to leave the store without them.
I think John Updike explained it best when he said, “What art offers is space — a certain breathing room for the spirit.” Because that’s exactly what I needed.
A month later, I started shopping for real art supplies at the local craft store, where I also discovered several gorgeous art magazines featuring how-to articles on mixed-media collage and altered books. I couldn’t learn fast enough. And by the end of that year, I found myself clearing space for an art studio upstairs above the garage. My son reveled in his freshman year at the University of Notre Dame while I happily painted, cut, and pasted another path of my own.
So, it’s getting to be that time of year again. Time to get the garden ready for bed. Time to head upstairs to the art studio and see what art will teach me next.
I’ve already started making notes on projects I’d like to begin — a line of greeting cards, a mixed-media collage or two, and a deliciously creepy construction for an upcoming Halloween show. Preparing for the new season, I swept the floor of the studio last week and took stock of what I’ll need to begin again. I can hardly wait to shop for my new supplies. – Cindy La Ferle
– Art studio photos by Cindy La Ferle –
Are we halfway through August already? Since “back to school” is the topic of the week (and I’m still on sabbatical), I’m sharing a piece I wrote for MetroParent not long after my son flew off to college….
Life isn’t the same, but I’m OK with that now. I’ve come to realize that a mom is always a mom, even though her parenting role changes over time.
