Posts Tagged ‘midlife topics’
Cindy on January 19th, 2012
We have too little time to waste it in relationships that are not equal and mutually rewarding. Exchanging energy nourishes our souls.”
— Sue Patton Theole in The Woman’s Book of Spirit
In addition to getting my mother adjusted to assisted living — still a challenge — I’m devoting the month of January to organizing clutter. For starters, I bought a portable day planner for keeping track of my mother’s insurance info and medical appointments, plus dozens of other notes to myself.
The new planner now combines my personal data with my mother’s, all in one handy notebook that fits in my purse. While transferring names and numbers to the new pages, I remembered the following essay from my book, Writing Home. It was first published in a local column when I was a younger mom with a school-age child.
Address Book
August 15, 1999; Reprinted from Writing Home.
Some things will always defy our control. Keeping a kid in the same shoe size for more than six months is one example; maintaining a neat, fully updated address book from one year to the next is another. I’m talking about the old-fashioned (not electronic) address books that keep us in social contact — the dog-eared pages we’ve crammed with birthday reminders, letters to answer, and cards announcing new addresses for relocated loved ones.
My own address book is a bit confusing, even to my husband, but it does have a system. For example, one page might be scribbled with little arrows and codes referencing another section of the book (“Look under H/Hill”). This usually means that someone has remarried and changed her name, or that a cousin has left for college or moved to his own apartment.
No matter how badly it’s organized, my address book is irreplaceable, especially during emergencies. This hit me seven years ago after my father died. One of the first things my mother and I did was comb through our address books to locate former coworkers, distant cousins, and old friends who needed to be notified of Dad’s passing. Each name, each address, was a chapter in my father’s history.
Your own address book is probably a chronicle of your ever-evolving relationships — an autobiography in progress. And since relationships are inherently messy, it stands to reason that your address book is messy too. Flipping through mine recently, I made the following observations:
– Reflecting the national average, many of my friends are divorced or working on second marriages.
– Divorce often forces us to choose between friends who used to be a couple.
– Having kids makes a huge difference in our social circle, not to mention the restaurants we frequent.
– The more people we know and love, the harder it is to send birthday cards on time.
– As we age, the line between friends and family starts to blur.
Catching up on the phone last week, Margaret, my former college roommate, and I decided that our midlife definition of “old friends” covers people we’ve known and loved unconditionally for at least half of our lives. They’re the first ones we call when the biopsy results come back or our kids win the big tournament at school.
That’s not to say I undervalue the various gifts my newer friends bring to the table. Some are skilled counselors or tireless cheerleaders; others are better at listening than advice-giving. One brings comic relief to every party, while another is the perfect companion for a silent retreat at a monastery. All have expanded my outlook and enriched my life, and I look forward to our future together.
But I’ve also found that while most of us change or evolve over time, our friendships don’t always change or evolve with us. One friend and I drifted so far apart in our interests that we might just as well have moved to opposite sides of the planet. Another disappeared without a trace after a heartrending divorce.
While every relationship has its low points, the stronger ones survive conflict as well as change of address. But I’ve learned it’s never healthy to cling to an alliance that has turned draining, one-sided, negligent, or destructive. As Emerson said, friendship should offer mutual “aid and comfort” through all of life’s passages. I think it should be fun, too.
A few people with whom I’ve lost touch or parted company are still listed in my address book. At one time, those relationships filled crucial gaps in my life and helped shape the person I am today. I still feel twinges of regret whenever I pause at the pages showing their names and numbers. And because there are a few good memories also attached to those names, I can’t quite bring myself to erase them. – Cindy La Ferle
Click here to read another column I wrote last spring on the benefits of maintaining healthy friendships.
– Writing Home can be purchased at Amazon.com and is available at the Yellow Door Art Market in downtown Berkley, MI. –
Cindy on January 6th, 2012
Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.” — Maya Angelou
Yesterday, while labeling my mother’s clothing and underwear, I had a surreal moment in which I felt as if I were moving another kid to college. In reality, we’re getting ready to transfer Mom to an assisted living residence, where she’ll soon have her own studio apartment.
Doug and I spent the past week moving pieces of Mom’s furniture (her apartment comes with some basics) along with decorative accessories, photos, clothing, TV, microwave, and toiletries. We also shopped for a bedspread and items for her kitchenette.
The new apartment looks traditional and beautiful — the style my mother is accustomed to — yet we know, deep down, that all the elegant things in the world won’t fool my mother into thinking this other place is superior to the condo she’s grown to love so much.
When Doug and I aren’t consumed by the moving process, I’m usually on the phone with a social worker or a physical therapist at the nursing center where my mother is undergoing rehab now. The social worker is concerned about my mother’s delusional behavior this week. Mom doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong with her health — nor does she remember last month’s visit to the ER at Beaumont Hospital, which ultimately led to all of this. Sounding like Dorothy on a broken record, she just keeps asking to go home. To her real home.
While I know this move is inevitable and right, I still feel twinges of guilt for uprooting my mother from everything that matters to her.
And I don’t know how I’d survive the stress without Doug, the world’s absolute-best husband. It breaks my heart a little, too, when I remember that Doug plowed through a similar scenario less than two years ago when his late father (who had Alzheimer’s) had to be moved several times until he and his mother found the right nursing home. (Ain’t midlife grand?) Doug’s experience with lease agreements and medical/legal paperwork alone has been invaluable, not to mention his willingness to sit with me and write my mother’s name on dishtowels and socks with a permanent marker.
The big move from the nursing center to assisted living is scheduled for Sunday. What a long and winding road it’s been. While I’ll be relieved to get my mother in a safe place, finally, I know there’s a boatload of emotional work ahead of me. Mom will need time and patience to adjust. And so will I. -- Cindy La Ferle
– Top: Our family with my mom on Christmas night, at Woodward Hills nursing center cafeteria. My mother has been recovering at Woodward Hills following a week at Beaumont Hospital last month. Bottom photo: A detail from Mom’s new apartment at a local assisted living residence. –
Cindy on October 2nd, 2011
When in doubt, wear red. Red is the ultimate cure for sadness.” –Bill Blass
Big news for devoted fans of red shoes: A pair of ruby slippers worn by Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz will be auctioned off in December by Profiles in History, a California auction house.
As MSN Entertainment reported last week, replicas of the ruby slippers, including stunt shoes for the film, were sold in previous auctions. But the pair that’s up for bidding at the “Icons of Hollywood” event is one of four original pairs used in the filming of The Wizard of Oz in 1939. (One pair is displayed at the “Icons of American Culture” exhibition at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History.)
I’ve always thought it strange that the famous shoes were called “slippers” in the classic film. Most women would agree that they were actually pumps with substantial heels. Those heels took Dorothy on a major detour through the haunted woods and held up for her big chase scene at the Wicked Witch’s castle. By the time she finally reached Oz, her footwear hadn’t lost a single sequin. That was one powerful pair of slippers.
The ruby slippers inspired me, early on, to start my own small collection of red shoes. Shopping online last month, I discovered a glittery pair that conjured a cheerful memory of Garland dancing with Ray Bolger’s “Scarecrow” down the Yellow Brick Road. Mine will likely dance with my husband at a Christmas party or a wedding reception. But even though I had no specific occasion in mind — and I really didn’t need more shoes! — I had to purchase the pair right away.
So, what is it about red shoes? Aside from their literary ties to the fabled Oz, why do red shoes seem to possess magical attributes?
For some fresh insight, I approached a long-distance friend, Bridgette, whose delightful blog is titled Life in Red Shoes. Bridgette claims that you can’t have a bad day if you’re wearing a pair of red shoes.
“I love them, wildly, madly, deeply. Just can’t get enough,” Bridgette told me.
“It was during a low point, one that lasted several years, that I bought my first pair of red shoes. It must have been the late 80s, and color was all the rage…remember neon? I was in a Payless shoe store, the only place I could afford at the time, and there they were — a pair of cherry red moc crock loafers!”
Bridgette was smitten, but she wondered: Were the shoes too bold? Do I dare wear them? What would people think? Of course, she bought the shoes anyway, and it didn’t take her long to find the courage to wear them. Today, she owns an impressive collection of footwear in riotous shades of red.
So, what is it about red shoes? Aside from their literary ties to the fabled Oz, why do red shoes seem to possess magical attributes?
As most women agree, red shoes aren’t for shrinking violets. They’re for women who refuse to surrender to a lousy mood; women who believe they have a God-given right to have fun — at any age.
“Wearing red shoes makes a statement,” Bridgette explains. “When you wear red shoes, you’re saying: I don’t take myself too seriously, I laugh out loud, and I don’t let the bastards get me down! Wearing a pair of red shoes is like adding an exclamation mark to your outfit, a smile to your feet, sunbeams streaming to your toes!”
But Bridgette’s blog isn’t limited to the topic of collecting shoes. For this grandmother in Utah, “Life in Red Shoes” is a byproduct of her midlife mission. It’s all about rediscovering what makes her happy — and finding inspiration in her daily round. She might post a reflection on her experience as a school teacher or share photos of a new craft project she just finished.
That said, when I first discovered Bridgette’s blog, I was inspired to pull my own collection of red shoes from the back of my closet — and to start wearing them.
My red shoes are a small but powerful antidote to the problems I’ve been wrestling with lately — including finding the right help for an elderly mother who’s falling under the cruel spell of dementia. As Bridgette reminded me, it’s important for all of us to savor the simple pleasures that lift our spirits, and to seize, as Dorothy did, every chance we get to step out of our comfort zones.
If you’re not a wearer of red shoes, do you have another article of footwear or clothing that wakes you up and makes your heart sing? – Cindy La Ferle
QUICK UPDATE: Bridgette, otherwise known to her friends as “Red,” just posted some photographs of her feet wearing red shoes from her impressive collection. Click here to see the photos on “Life in Red Shoes.”
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. –
In addition to getting my mother adjusted to assisted living — still a challenge — I’m devoting the month of January to organizing clutter. For starters, I bought a portable day planner for keeping track of my mother’s insurance info and medical appointments, plus dozens of other notes to myself. 
Catching up on the phone last week, Margaret, my former college roommate, and I decided that our midlife definition of “old friends” covers people we’ve known and loved unconditionally for at least half of our lives. They’re the first ones we call when the biopsy results come back or our kids win the big tournament at school.
