My Dark side of the Moon

          Mid-Life Uncertainties                                     and Ruminations...

  (entries from my journal, December, 1999)

Who am I? 

 Woman, mother, wife, daughter, sister, attendant to the sick and dying, a survivor of past misfortunes.  I am an empty well longing to be filled. This longing has been with me most of my life, the life that longs to know itself, to wake up out of the great silence that comforts me after a good cry or when I am alone and the children have gone to bed and my husband, ever content,  lies snoring beside me.

Growth is a slow, fertile process, the process of a lifetime.  Learning how to step into the feminine, the moon, the sea inside me that tosses and turns and yearns to birth like a fetus in a womb, it does not happen overnight.  And finally, in my mid-forties, I am beginning to find my way, a way that is surprising and tender and sometimes sad but always satisfying because it is more who I am.

I love the winter months, the first sting of cold, the breathless wonder that greets me when I open the door.  It’s a time to move inside to the warmth of wood burning, hot cocoa, sweat pants and long "catnaps".  Glorious solitude. 

Each phase of life holds challenges as well as new possibilities of who we can be which cause me to pause and re-examine, to perhaps dig a little deeper in order to release a pot bound root or constricting perspective.

Joy and sorrow exist side by side like the blossoming gardenias and the rotting tomatoes out on the vine.  I vow to be more present to that eternal place where every past originates and every gift lies.  But it is not easy.

               “Listening to your heart, finding out who you are, is not simple . . .”

In my dreams, dark clouds swell. Life keeps happening and so does death.  Death and darkness are honorable teachers. And rather than meet them with fear I am learning to open just a little. For what is fear but the unknown workings of an inner life trying to be born.

All of life is uncertain and certainty it seems is much overrated. To be quite honest, this urge to write is the riskiest thing I’ve ever encountered.  At times I sense a powerful river running through me and I am teetering on its edge as it readies itself to spill over.  And the thing that will tip the scales is courage.

Growth is a twofold process that requires a time of incubation in order to lay down roots, a strong foundation, and then comes a time to spread our wings and fly.  I know there’s a strange bird inside me, one I hardly recognize at times, and it’s beginning to poke it’s beak into the thin air . . . 

The Unsung Waffle House Hero

Early one winter morning some years back my husband and I decide to brave the harsh conditions of ice and snow left over from the day before to go out for breakfast.  We clear off our car and head for the main roads, watching for an OPEN sign at any of the local restaurants.  We didn’t have far to go to find a Waffle House.

In case you don’t know, Waffle House makes the best hash browns and eggs over easy.  Perfectly cooked and as good as any New York diner. So in our heavy winter coats and boots, we shuffle in alongside the regulars who are already gathering in their favorite booths, sipping coffee and making small talk.  We make our way to a booth at the back. 

We later learn that this particular Waffle House was built in 1973 and is one of the oldest in the area.  All these years, the structure has neither been updated nor the parking lot properly maintained, which by the way had mammoth pot holes the size of basketballs. We knew this because we overheard the manager complaining about it, and he was obviously not a complaining kind of guy as we observed him with the customers, laughing and joking.  Believe me, he was the bright spot in the place.

We seat ourselves in a booth and right away Carol, our server, comes over to hand us our menus and fill our coffee cups.  Carol appears middle aged. She has clear blue eyes and straight red hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. In her deep gravely southern voice, she calls out our order to the cook, “Waffles two one over medium single hash browns smothered plain wheat on a plate!”  My ever inquisitive husband immediately strikes up a conversation by asking Carol for a translation of the secret waffle house code.  The conversation takes off from here.

Despite a rough life, Carol is not a bitter person by any means.  She tells us she has worked at this same Waffle House for over 27 years, except for the 17 months she took off after her twins were born. She raised four children (now grown), working night shifts so she could be there to wake them up in the morning and get them off to school.  She’d catch a few hours of sleep and be there when they got home from school.  If possible, she’d sleep a few more hours before heading off to work again, waiting on tables and shouting out orders.  She accomplished all this in spite of a no good alcoholic husband who contributed little but heart ache.  However, this was all in the past and now the real story begins.

Last year when four hurricanes swept across Florida, virtually everything was closed including grocery stores and restaurants.  Believe it or not, in order to serve people in need, Waffle House flew Carol and her fellow Waffle House “missionaries” to Orlando to initially close down and, as soon as the storms passed,  open back up Waffle Houses all over Florida.  She and other Waffle House employees worked around the clock with practically no sleep and no days off getting restaurants up and running again so they could serve the public need, truly a rare act of beneficence in the corporate world.

After the storms passed and Waffle Houses re-opened in Florida, there were long lines of customers out the door waiting to get inside. Carol told us how one of her customers, a mother, had tears in her eyes as she related how she and her three hungry children drove over 100 miles looking for food and how thankful she was at last to find Waffle House open.  Carol related story after story of similar circumstances and of how customers gave her twenty dollar tips because they were so grateful and relieved to find food.  She confessed to having gone out behind the dumpster once or twice to have a good cry.

Isn’t it strange how sometimes we find heroes hidden in the most unlikely places.  And what a surprise to discover one right in our midst, serving a cup of coffee, wiping up a spill,  or handing out an extra napkin.  All I can say is, Thank you Carol, wherever you are, for your untiring service to ordinary people everywhere.  And Thank you to all the Carols of the world, you know who you are.

.

Seven Women by the Sea

I've just returned from a getaway in Indian Shores, Florida, thirty minutes south of Tampa on the gulf coast, where seven friends, all women, decide to rent a condo together for the week.

 From our fifth floor balcony, we watch the green foamy waves of the sea roll in. The weather is not as warm as we had anticipated, but no one seems to mind.  We bundle up in fleece jackets and brave the near gale force winds to walk along the empty beach.  We stop to inspect delicate sea shells and washed up sea “treasures” for signs of life. We are carried almost effortlessly by the wind at our backs. 

However, on our return trip, as we press into the wind, the salty tang of the sea hits our nostrils and slaps against our face and the sheer force of the wind requires almost every ounce of strength we have to move forward. We are like explorers not knowing what we’ll find, but eager to take a chance at discovering something new.

And we do.

We discover that we, as women, no matter our backgrounds or beliefs, share a common bond.  We are each unique yet not as different as one might think.  And when we come together in numbers something powerful begins to happen.

Each morning upon arising we sit in silence, listening to the roar of the ocean as the sun’s light creeps into the room, and later in the day we gather again to marvel at the splash of pink and orange across the evening sky as the sun makes its final dip behind the sparkling watery horizon.  

We have no daily planners, no meals to prepare, no pets to feed, no children or husbands to tend to, just the seven of us with the sand beneath our feet, the magnificent ocean and endless sky. And as we listen to the sounds of the sea, the birds and the wind, it takes us somewhere magical deep down inside.  A place we don’t often go.

Listening to our body is not something we are taught to do.  Mostly, we are taught to ignore it.  Listening to the body doesn’t mean we give over to its cravings, but to the softer voice further down behind the cravings that tells us what we truly need which is usually more rest, time for our self,  exercise, silence, music, creative expression . . .  you know the voice, the one that’s drowned out by all the chatter of life.

And when we begin to listen here too, so much comes spilling out.  We laugh, we cry, we hug.  Our women friends become like the strong wind at our back that carries us effortlessly along. And we discover we are stronger than we ever knew because we see it in each other’s eyes and remember that "it’s here in me too".

Mom with Alzheimer's Disease

Me and Mom

One of my most challenging times was caring for a parent with Alzheimer's.  At the time, my mother was living in a large retirement community with my step-father who did not seem to understand what was happening to mom in spite of repeated attempts to explain to him the specifics of her illness. All he knew was that his Betty was not the same woman he had married.  And she wasn't.

When I arrived at their doorstep one morning to help shower and dress mother, who in her earlier years had been a very proper woman, I found her wandering around the living room munching on a pretzel with nothing on but her undies.  My step-father was in the other room at the computer, absorbed in his email.  As soon as I arrived on the scene he darted out the door to breakfast down in the dinning room with his friends. 

I would strip the bed linens, throw a load of laundry in the washing machine, make mother breakfast, and help her bathe and dress. It was exhausting work at times, yet even in the moments of exhaustion, there were pockets of pure joy and delight in being with mother who in some ways had reverted back to the innocence of childhood.  She would ooh! and ahh! at the fresh berries I put in her oatmeal, and when my step-father returned from his breakfast in the dinning room with the cup of coffee we had instructed him to bring mother, the cup would be half empty with hot liquid dripping down the sides of the Styrofoam cup.  Mother would wink at me and roll her eyes and we'd giggle to ourselves, thanking him for remembering to bring the coffee.

A Blog Created by and for Women

Women's Stories that could Change your Life

I have journaled most of my adult life.  My drawers and closets are stuffed with colorful spiral notebooks, nothing fancy, just plain old white lined paper that hold my deepest secrets - the tears, heartbreaks, joys and revelations of my 60 plus years of living on the planet.  Finally one day it hit me as I was flipping through the yellowed pages of my notebooks, all the richness of life, lessons learned, and wisdom gleaned from stories never told.

No matter our age, we all carry our own unspoken, unwritten stories, the details as unique and varied as a finger print yet similar in essence.  When shared, these stories carry a potency and power to inspire, uplift and transform the giver as well as the receiver.

As women we speak of things we measure our life by, that which is near and dear to our hearts such as family, relationships, child rearing,  life work,  caring for elderly parents, creativity, travel, as well as spirituality and a sense of sacredness and awe for this mystery called life.

My intention here is to provide an open space where women can come together to share their inner most thoughts, experiences, insights or bits of humor. As I attempt to capture some of the experiences and inspirations I have had along the way, I invite you, the reader, to share in the conversation too. 

Who knows what might happen from the telling of even a single story.  More and more women may be inspired to tell their stories, and the telling and listening of each others stories might inspire more hope, comfort, optimism, strength, wisdom, laughter, perseverance, empowerment, awakening, and dare I say greatness! 

As one wise woman once said, “In the story of one woman is the story of every woman”.

So I invite you to join me in this adventure. And please don’t hold back!