There is a Last Time

There's gonna be a last time.

Ready or not, there will be a last snowfall.

Remember last post, when I wrote I felt a name change coming on?  Shortly after I admitted that, I admitted something bigger. 

Post Widowhood needs to scoop you all up and wish you well.  I'm saying Bye-Bye.

I've outgrown it.  I don't feel 'post' widowhood, 'post' recovery, 'post' relevant.  Yeah, it's all 'post'.  Yet it's all 'beginnings'.  History has given me wings. 

The eyes I have found here have felt more real and loving than physical eyes I once searched as I asked "Are you with me?"  With your company, my own eyes felt the answer.  You have been a new mirror for me, replacing that rusty, dusty, fusty, musty version in my head.  Your words have had enormous impact.  I don't know if this was exactly what you intended, but in real life now, I'm genuinely warm toward people I feel warmly toward, and genuinely off-putting to people I want to be off-putting to.  The congruence is absolutely relaxing.  I laugh often.  And offload my opinions in other places.

But I'm all talked out here! 

I was worried that the digital sphere would swallow evidence I existed when this blog falls silent.  So before posting this final message I assembled physical evidence, and a PDF file.  Hah!  Yesterday two full color volumes from Blog2print arrived.   Five plus years.  262 posts, pictures and comments.  Volume One, 2012, 2013 and 2014 - 206 pages of gorgeous evidence that I existed.  Volume Two, 2015, 2016 through January 24, 2017 - 340 pages of proof that I really had a lot to get off my chest.

I promise - my words will continue to pop up your blogs. 

Love you all!

I Feel a New Name Coming On

Underneath my blog's web address, blog names pop up, like babies.  I'm on, like, my fourth one?  They disappear and I forget them.  Only one I remember is Waking Up Every Day.  Must have been my favorite baby.   Way back, five years ago, one blog name, Post Widowhood sufficed, if I remember correctly.

Kissing the Air might pop up.  Or maybe Real is in Here Someplace. 

What's in a name?  Everything.  All redirect my attention.  All set my intention.   Each take a shot at some sacred cow living inside my head.   And to this sacred cow, each says

Don't get your knickers in a twist, my dear

PostWidowhood is a jab at Post Season angst, if you've ever wondered.

Flawlessly Ordinary takes a jab at a particular sacred cow I grew up with.  It may also be a message our culture perpetuates:

"You, my dear, feel left out, because you are left out.  Why?  Because you are...ordinary.   Only extraordinary people of extraordinary deeds deserve attention and respect." 

Flawlessly Ordinary takes aim at this asinine belief that ranks people.  Whether it made any sense to you, it inspired me.

It'll stay up there until my knickers stop getting in a twist when someone acts superior to another.  Do people realize the damage they do acting superior?  Far too many people feel ashamed of themselves because they believe people can be ranked. If I or someone feels they need to recruit another to their point of view because it's superior...

Uh, oh.  I am feeling contractions.  Some name for this blog is pressing to come out.

The fellow leading the seminar last Saturday, planted a little seed.

"You don't get out of here alive."  We all agree, no?

Well, Dr. Alexander now believes, after his Near Death Experience:

"Nobody gets out of here dead."

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

These he also said, and I do agree...
"We're conscious in spite of our brain."
"Hardships are gifts."
"Just as all politics is local, all spirituality is local."
"Souls arrive knowing they will be dumbed down."
"We're here to play by the universe's rules, not our own rules."

But this one? 

"Nobody gets out of here dead"

The Sounds of (my) Heaven in New York City

New York, New York...It's a wonderful town!

I could name this post 'Sounds of my Heart', because feeling my heart and soul is all that matters to me these days.

(Note to all: I'm taking a stab at leaving in what I edit out.) 

In the bowels of Marble Collegiate Church

Question: If you had a chance to learn a new skill you had no talent for, would you?  For most this >>> Listening to the sounds of heaven in one's heart <<< is second nature.  In an uncluttered soul/ heart, so I believe.  When haven't you felt the stirrings of a love that escapes physical boundaries, leaping into the puppy at your side, or man in your bed, or the sun on its path?  It's the inescapable joy of existence. 

(Don't you wish I was editing?!!)

So this past year especially, but really the past decade, I have been clearing away inner clutter so that I can choose my existence instead of it choosing me.  To put it bluntly, I walked away from the schoolyard that prison-yard alpha b***h birthed me into. I am now learning my P's and Q's in a schoolyard of my choice.  Soul school.

I so wanted to photograph the screen ad before this one - for the Sex Museum.

Which brings me - which brought me - to New York City yesterday. But before I get to that, I want to tell you.... there's this strange phenomenon that happens to me as I drive into New York City.  I calm down.  My entire nervous system relaxes, melting into arms so wide.  I pondered this a little as I drove down the West Side.  I spent many years driving down the Sawmill across the bridge into upper Manhattan, then down the West Side Highway alongside the Hudson River to Greenwich Village to the hospital for my husband's cancer treatment.  My body recognizes its rhythms and relaxes.  'Course back then, I had my buddy in the car.  Yet I still feel I have his gorgeous company as I drive in.  Driving in yesterday, Saturday, morning meant next to no traffic, although I first checked to see where the Women's March would be held so I skirt around any of its congestion.

I started in at 8:15am and was there by 9:15am.  Now the stars have to align perfectly or that doesn't happen.  I live a whisker over 50 miles from NYC's beautiful, beating heart.  The stars aligned beautifully yesterday.

Dr. Eben Alexander

The management of my soul - my heart - is what I went in for.   Have you guys read "Proof of Heaven"?  Published in 2012, it recounts the 2008 Near Death Experience of the Neurosurgeon Eben Alexander, M.D..  He had quite the ride into heaven during his week long coma, when his brain had no sign of life.  Yet, he was conscious.  With nary a functional cell in his brain, he was fully present in this other non-local consciousness.  (Isn't that an intriguing word for God?)  Against all odds, he came out, and took some time grasping the enormity of what this meant.  Conclusion: The brain is a filter for consciousness, and NOT the creator of consciousness.  This formerly materialist, agnostic scientist has a lot of post-NDE evidence that love beats at the center of this universe. 

Hearing his story wasn't what nudged me to register for his all day seminar at Marble Collegiate Church on Fifth Avenue.  I hoped for guidance into this ultra real experience.  I've been entering this new sphere of heartfelt existence ( really, what anybody having felt unconditional love from their Mama has in their heart ) and want to live from its directive.  Dr. Alexander has partnered with a brilliant woman, Karen Newell, who, together with another sound engineer, has created sound meditations.  There have been a number of sound technicians and composers who have created aids to meditating; that is, sounds that occupy and kind of 'jam' the thought center of our brains, to enable us to allow expanded contact with our soul instead of our conditioned beliefs and created identities.  Hers have allowed Dr. Alexander to access a taste his ND Experience of non-local Love consciousness.   I sure want access to this state of being.  While I have beliefs and earthly identity, I prefer they be at the service of my soul.  It's the orientation I choose.  Being a erratic meditator and pray-er, I need all the help I can get for this mystical experience.  These Sound CD's are training wheels for meditation..  Sacred Acoustics Technology here for the whole story.

Dr. Eben Alexander, Karen Newell, my fellow meditators, New York...all made for a delicious, heartwarming day.  We engaged in two deep meditations.  Now, at home, I've created a sacred space...well, finishing up on its good start, anyway.

I'd like to leave you with Eben Alexander's words from "Proof of Heaven"s Afterward:

"Memory, Plato argued, is power.  And it is memory that brings us out of the false definitions of ourselves that earthly life can lead us into.  But we have to remember to remember.  Here are a few ways that I hope will help you to do just that. [each topic below he expands upon.]

Number One:
Remember the Limits of Words, and Remember Their Power

Number Two:
Remember Your Brain's Limits

Number Three:
Remember You Are Not Alone

Number Four:
Remember That Faith Leads Toward, Not Away From, Truth

Number Five:
Remember That You Have Been Here Before

Number Six:
Remember That We Are Going Somewhere

Number Seven:
Remember That We Make Our Own Reality

Number Eight, Nine, Ten:
Remember That You Are Loved, You Have Nothing to Fear, and You Can Do No Wrong"

Sprinkled throughout are photos of a day in New York.

Smiling at 'ya,
Flo

Loving What's Arising

My new outlook is growing legs.  Scratch that....my new 'IN'look - me loving who I am deep within - is growing legs.

Which leaves me, now that I feel splendid, to wonder...What to unveil?  My words here have always aimed to reach their target in someone's heart.  My blog writing has always edited the banter that spills out.  I try to drain that swamp, so if at all possible, you see my inner heart, that love lump in my chest, opening.  Above everything, my inner love lump wants to meet your inner love lump.

Earnest I am. 

But what if I'm not a swamp?!?

Might you want to know the circumstances my little love lump lives in?  I'm secure enough to ask if you're interested.  So here's to spilling.

I've begun making big changes in my living quarters.  I've now begun giving my home something more than the rummage sale décor that a very clever but second-rate person 'deserves'.  This fall I hired someone to paint my small library, and yesterday I hung a beautiful framed reproduction of Rembrandt's Prodigal son on its wall.

This painting is sacred to me.  When I was on tour in St, Petersburg, I stood transfixed before this immense 7 x 9 foot painting.  Though they tried to bustle me along, I wouldn't leave without buying its reproduction and carrying it all the way back across the Atlantic.  You see, I am the prodigal daughter. 

Back to circumstances...
My kitchen is its original 50 year old self, with replacement cabinet doors I polyurethaned twenty-nine years ago in our basement, in 1988.  Given that NO dust could fly, all doors were shut.  I gave myself one doozy case of pleurisy.   This time, I'm playing it safer, not doing it myself.  850 square feet, half of my first floor, is going to be remodeled to suit this woman.  I plan to age (?!) in place the next twenty years at least.

Last Saturday an architect, draftsman and builder visited my house.  Despite visiting lovely new kitchens and perusing kitchen magazines and stores for two years, I have never developed a case of kitchen envy.  So plans stalled.  Last week - finally - it all came together. I need a Zen kitchen, aka a Disappearing Kitchen!  O.K. I do cook.  Here's the look.

With a few walls removed, all 850 square feet can resemble the first picture - open, uncluttered, ample windows, with floor to ceiling cabinets.  Hallelujah, the builder does exactly this sort of remodeling.  The architect is more of a traditionalist, but we'll all work together.  Besides, the architect is the son of my best friend.  Presumably he'll want to do well by Mom and he'll rest assured I'll want to do well by 'mom' as well.  His standards are high; he's now finishing up Ivanka Trump's Manhattan home ( as site manager, not architect).

Clearly I'll be spending my inheritance... 

Are you guys at all interested in the circumstances of my life?  If you want to stay in the loop with me, could you let me know? 

It's QUIET in Here

I adore winter.   I adore snowstorms.  As long as the power stays on.  Soon the snow blowers, including mine, will break the 13 degree silence, but for now we live under this pristine white blanket. 

Sixteen tabs are open on my computer.  Two of my ninety-two Kindle books are open.  One paperback - "The Map of Heaven" by Eben Alexander, M.D. is almost finished.

Countless CDs - maybe two hundred - lie on the chair, and on the couch next to me, leaving me just enough room to sit and stretch my feet out on the coffee table.  My cat is upset.   He can't curl up beside me, so he perches on the couch's arm, then leaves, stopping briefly to glare at me.  It's temporary!  How can I make him understand?  The CD cabinet was too heavy to move out of the hallway into my freshly painted library without emptying it.  Over the holidays I added two dozen CDs to my collection.  CD's on the couch, the chair, in piles.  ONE boxful is on its way to Goodwill.

The shelves are still bare, two weeks after they were painted.  How long should you let paint cure before putting stuff on shelves?

It is  a w e s o m e l y peaceful behind these eyes.  I have been meaning to tell you this for days.  Not knowing HOW to tell you, though.  How does one tell about an absence?

The PTSD pinball machine I was trapped inside for 58 years is G O N E.   Yes, the balls, springs, levers and flippers.  Felt like me, with me all the time.  Some call it our Inner Critic.  Just last month I discovered the co-host in my head and named it the Mad Hatter.  That Mad Hatter was playing my pinball machine for all it was worth.  Making me crazy!  This was when I realized.... someone inside me must be independently observing the Mad Hatter.   the  'Real' me.  Hello?  sweet Flo!

You've probably experienced me differently here.  Not completely addled. I wrote right through my Mad Hatter's antics.  Now the Mad Hatter is gone.   Took the pinball machine with him.  Where?  I don't know.  On another planet?  Do I care?!? I can't even relate to it except in some dry historical way.  Victim 

Celebrant!

It really took 'going back there' and redoing the ending for me.  Not everybody needs that, do they?

Goodness. Why does bad stuff happen in the first place?  Maya Angelou didn't speak for six years after she was raped as a child.  The attack I endured had not one finger touching me, yet its surgical precision stripped me and delivered its load of shame all the same.  What happened to me was a bit like what happened to the developmentally disabled young man in Chicago recently, lured by a [false] friend into an apartment, where he was humiliated and pummeled.  The emotional pummeling, will that heal?  Will he ever trust again?

My pinball machine and Mad hatter were born one spring day in 1958 or 1959.  One can say that day put the icing on the cake, because the cake had already been baked.  Evidently that's the day my core belief shifted to 'I am developmentally disabled' and never shifted back.  Until 9 days ago.  Argh!  I spent my whole life trying to disguise a false fact!

Unlike Maya Angelou, I spoke afterwards, but no longer as the 'real' me - after all 'I' was developmentally disabled.  Thereafter, I spoke as a 'pretend' person, playing the part of a pert, unflappable doll.  I rarely uttered a peep.   Sometimes in life, in those rare moments when the stars lined up, I was Missy Pert.  Like on my wedding day, when my family was nice as can be.  But afterwards, even basking in the glow of a husband who pretty much adored me, the levers and flippers never ceased reminding me I was really a fool underneath.

But I'm not.

Here's what's I discover in my Celebrant's heart:

We can't escape the realities of life when we open our heart.  We will be prejudged, critiqued, misunderstood, laughed at.  By some people.  Blind people.  Tell them how you feel, but be prepared to leave these folks if they aren't taking you seriously. You can love them from afar. We will also be invited, appreciated, enjoyed and belong with some folks.

Conditions of heaven are rather spotty on earth.  When necessary, move your chair.

Forthwith, I will be mapping out heaven and earth.  Any tips?

Uh oh.  Here comes my cat again.

Pat Me On The Back

This post may be difficult to read.  I don't believe it will be difficult to write.  Remember my last post, where I wrote I edited out the negative stuff? Well, now you get the negative stuff.  It's limbo time between Christmas and New Year's.  Why not?!

A year ago I set my intention to recover from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I have worked SO hard this year.  Remember when we thought I had recovered by August?  Hah! I hadn't even remembered the EVENT.  I'd just gotten the set up.  Ages 0 - 5.  The EVENT itself happened when I was four, maybe five.  Wasn't until this month that I remembered it.  Oh, it was real.  Just in case, I asked two of the four involved if they remembered it happening exactly as I did.  They did. Ha!  No false memory in this brain.  (Three of the four perpetrators were 'normal' children, my siblings.)

Today, dear friends, the event that seared shame into my heart and my mind, got relived.   It got both relived and REWORKED.  Ah, there's the healing.

Let me tell you what it's been like living inside this body since I was five.  I have lived in a world where one misplaced trust means I will be humiliated beyond belief.  Beyond terrifying.  I didn't have a clue where this came from.  Figured I was abnormal, which made me feel more ashamed.  Oh, dear.  I have spent my life trying to act normal though I don't feel normal.  Meanwhile feeling pretty numb.  Except around my sweetheart.  I would have been fine if he hadn't died.  Truth is, I really needed to get to the heart of this.  Love needs my open heart.

Five years old.  Maybe four.  Kids at that age don't understand cruelty.  They get ensnared in the "It was my fault; I brought this on myself." loop and desperately try to find a way to control it from happening again.  But it could happen again.  I was powerless and helpless the first time it happened.  It was entirely unpredictable and unexpected.  It. could. happen. again. at. any. time.  Any. time. I. let. my. guard. down. and. trust. people.   Women.  The perpetrator was my mother.

I became reclusive to hide my shame.  I doubt my family even noticed, but in 1985 I hadn't any friends to invite to my wedding if I'd wanted to.  I have one best friend, and many online friends now.  But one, maybe two people to call when I die to show up at my memorial service. 

I have spent my whole life covering up a shame I didn't earn, or warrant.  Yet it got heaped on me.  It lived inside me, closer than my heartbeat.  Hey. That's why they call my outlook a 'disorder'.  Yet I think of how many children suffer at the hands of their parents.

I read an article about how some parents have taken to publicly shaming their own children on digital media.
Shaming Children on Social Media Has Got To Stop!
Hello?

What's really fascinating about trauma recovery, that I want to tell you, is that healing requires really, really reliving the trauma.  But instead, in a totally safe and loving environment.   Can you see why it takes time to feel strong enough to face something like that?  I gather that the closer to the trauma, the easier it is to resolve.  Oh well.  Fifty eight years passed.

There I was in my counselor's office today, five years old in feelings, words and deed. I kicked my feet out.  Whoops!  They're a lot longer now.  What is cool, is that once you are reliving it, YOU get to change how it all turns out.  You can make them stop and be sorry.

This is how I did it.  I instructed them to turn away, with their backs to me, and hang their heads in shame.  Then I made them hold hands in a circle, heads down in shame.  They had to circle and sing

Ring-a-round the rosie,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.

All. fell. down. 

Masterful Flo!

I'm kind of curious how life will unfold from here.

On This Day A Savior Was Born

I've written this post over a few times, pretty much editing all the negativity out.  Hope you don't mind!  Any deflation we feel over the holidays is temporary, right?!  Well, now that it's almost over, I'm back.

I am so grateful I didn't visit my birth family this year.  I do give my best effort to be F-U-N when I'm there.  Because who wants to be around someone who can't be cheered up unless a certain someone comes back to life?  But here, with absolutely no pressure to BE happy, I've found real joy bubbling up within me.   And gratitude.

The sights and sounds of Boston. 

Ha!  Notice the selfie? I'm feeling quite at home in Boston.  Not surprising since it was my home for two years, my sophomore year at Boston University and my year off working in a needlepoint design studio overlooking the Public Gardens.  I DO feel as young as I did then, except when I look in the mirror...

Yesterday I walked over to the Pop-up Holiday Village at Boston's Government Center to find Christmas gifts for the hotel staff.  I found six miniature tangine pots at a Moroccan shop, all different colors.  The shop keeper invited me to haggle, so $8 a piece went down to $6.  Then I wandered through Quincy Market behind Faneuil Hall, and around behind to the outdoor Public Farmer's Market, where I bought two boxes of blueberries for $3.  On my way back 'home' along the waterfront, I picked up a large lobster roll for dinner.  I couldn't even get my mouth around it, so some big chunks of lobster are Christmas dinner tonight.

I hadn't a clue what gift to put IN the Tangine pots for the staff, so late yesterday afternoon out I went again.  Peppermint Meringue Kisses at the bakery just beyond the Tea Party Museum were perfect.  So, together with Starbuck $5 gift cards and candy canes, I packed six little bags with tissue and played Santa Claus this morning.

Afterwards I listened to this video. The child born 2,016 years ago sparked my spiritual life 35 years ago, but Matt Kahn is my spiritual mentor this week.  Also Eben Alexander, M.D., who wrote 'Proof of Heaven'.   This is a link is to one of Matt Kahn's YouTube videos.

Merry Christmas !

Sources of Inspiration

A fellow blogger requested stories about people who have inspired us.  Just passing this along.
http://marthaslavin.blogspot.com .  She's begun publishing them in her blog.  Neat!  I myself haven't contributed my story.   I feel embarrassed to admit I didn't meet my first inspiring person until age 29.  I suppose I could write about him.  His tenderness introduced me to heaven on earth.  But, when I say I have no stories of inspiration from birth through age 29, I have to specify exactly what inspires me.

Tenderness.

Tenderhearted people.  I wonder if it's different for you? There are so many sources of inspiration.  After all, historically, inspiration was something from God.   Don't get me wrong.  I love God.   Yet nothing comes close to human tenderness.

I was curious.   When did 'tender' as a word come into existence?  As a value?  I rooted around in an online Etymological Dictionary.   'Tender' in the English language first came along as an adjective in the 1200's.

Tender

adjective 1. "soft, easily injured," 1200's, from Old French tendre "soft, delicate; young" (1000), from Latin tenerem (nominative tener) "soft, delicate; of tender age, youthful," centuries before.

Tender defined as "kind, affectionate, loving" did not develop until the 1300's.

So...when did 'tender' and 'hearted' first get put together into one word?

The first word connected with 'hearted' was 'hard'.  This was the period when 'tender' meant "soft, easily injured".

Hard-hearted, on the other hand, came into vogue as a desirable quality.

Hard-hearted

Originally "obdurate, unfeeling," in 1200, grew to mean "bold, courageous" by 1400. 

The meaning of 'hard-hearted' has evolved to mean "incapable of being moved to pity or tenderness; unfeeling". 

I guess in some quarters, hard-hearted is still inspirational...

Not until 1530, were 'tender' and 'hearted'  joined as one.

Tenderhearted

adjective 1." compassion for another's distress" 2. "easily moved to love".

Good thing 'tenderhearted' came along, or I wouldn't have the right word for what inspires me. 

Me, I didn't encounter 'tenderhearted' until adulthood. Mom was a hard hearted alcoholic, with nary a tender bone in her body.  Dad was an engineer.  Good at fixing things, not feeling feelings.  And even with the inspiration my late husband brought, I lost sight of 'tenderhearted' after he died.  Turned out deep down I had the 'If you knew me, you wouldn't love me' syndrome that kids from neglectful and abusive homes have.  If you relate, go to http://www.drjonicewebb.com/   It's where my recovery started.

Some say Jesus brought Inspiration.  To the degree Jesus helps us feel loved, I agree. This IS good news.   More moving for me, inspiration comes from the good news tenderhearted people bring. The news I now bring myself.

"To know you is to love you."

That is INSPIRING.

Who or what inspires you these days?

Anybody Nostalgic This Season?

I should know better than write while I'm sick.   You'd think feeling sick would make me wistful and nostalgic, but not so.  Me, I have this content feeling, like I'm right where I ought to be.  How about you?  Seasons past tugging at you?

Last month has been full of the usual winter prep - cleaning gutters and gardens, getting my house trim painted, setting up birdfeeders, winterizing the RV, mouse proofing.  Mouse proofing the RV has gone splendidly so far.  Nary a tiny black pellet!  I've one supersonic device plus mothballs underneath the RV's sink, where they built two nests last winter (and amply peed and pooped).  And a container of mothballs in an exterior compartment where they stored acorns last year (peeing and pooping amply there, too).  Plus a cake pan of mothballs under the RV itself.   I also put a super sonic repeller in my garage, and nary a poop there, either, next to the five airtight bins of bird seed.  Gotcha!

Different story in the basement.  There, tiny teeth have gnawed through a long, fuzzy draft stopper - you know, the ones you wedge by a door.  Somewhere, there is a little nest with wee ones.  Maybe not yet.  My ears don't pick up any squeaks.  I hope there's time to dissuade the little guys.  I'm buying another super sonic rodent repeller, and they're not cheap.  Thought I'd show you which one. 

In the midst of the chores, I had a lovely Thanksgiving.  I thought of you, sending blessings to you all.  I hope you felt them!  My family kept the meal simple - dinner at my father's assisted living home. Everybody was healthy and happy.  Can't ask for more.

Now on to Christmas.  I'm really excited about my Christmas plans this year.  I've bowed out of the annual family celebration my sister generously hosts.   Too many years of extraordinary widow loneliness and orchestrated cheer.   This year, I'm moving forward, creating the spiritual oasis I need.  This year I need to feel closer to a Greater Love.  'Tis one reason for the season, right?  Besides, I had great fortune on Cyber Monday - a hotel room at reasonable cost in Back Bay Boston the week before Christmas.  On Christmas Eve and Christmas, I'm treating myself to harbor front luxury.

Since my spirit's calling out for clarity and company, I've been musing about what Greater Love means to me.

Greater Love. God. Infinite Light. Love Consciousness. Higher Power.  Whatever one calls ultimate reality.   I'm feeling lucky, warm, grateful.  These are my beliefs:

I believe Greater Love (GL) inhabits our bodies.  It really hit me yesterday.  BIG SOURCE GL cozies up inside each one of us, and considers it an honor to experience life through us.  No matter how hard it is, we're not alone.

There is no secret passage, no entry fee for GL to come inside.  Conception...Maybe first gulp of air...That's all that's required.   Look at a baby and tell me you don't see Greater Love.

My number one job is to love the person who GL slipped into when I was born.   I'm here for her.

Might you call this a certain sort of nostalgia?  I don't feel nostalgia for the full glass.  I've even stopped seeing the glass as half full or half empty.  Perhaps, as another wise blogger wrote, I'm coming round to saying "It's a beautiful glass."

What's going on for you this season?

Ouch!

The last thing I want to do is radiate my suffering out to others, so this post is how one lady's blisters and callouses are doing. 

It's been a particularly blistering campaign.  (No shit, Sherlock.)

No place for tender tootsies, right?

A waitress and I got into it before the election, when I heard her claim that HC believed that aborting fetuses right up to full term was alright.  Well...she used stronger words than these.  Sounded a lot like something her opponent would say.  I'd sat quietly in my booth eating my breakfast, while she ranted.  Her customers agreed; Hilary was reprehensible. You've probably encountered this stuff on Facebook, but here it was, in the middle of my breakfast.   The owner chimed right in.

Finally, I blurted out "This is a lie!".   And more.  But she claimed it was true.   "Right there, in the third debate!" she said.  Well, I'd watched every minute of the third debate and didn't recall HC making this claim.

We agreed to disagree, hugged, and I paid for the breakfast and the blisters.  I resolved to look up the debate transcript and did, to be sure.

I found HC's response when DT put such horrible words in her mouth.

Legalese.

>>sigh<< 

She had voted against late term abortion, but didn't say so.  She made this longwinded rebuttal, staying in her head.  Doesn't she know the head is the least tender organ of the body and abortion requires a tender touch?

>>sigh<<

I returned to the Diner and talked to the owner, telling her I'd looked up what was said in the third debate.  That HC had voted against the very thing she was being accused of.  But the legalese dance she did sounded somewhat calloused.

>>sigh<<

Anyway, I resolved that my tootsies needed a more tender breakfast environment to settle into, so my blisters could heal.  Going one better, I resolved to boycott this Diner.  Grow callouses! For days I took my tootsies to a different breakfast place.  But yesterday my hands played seesaw with the steering wheel, and lurched my car over one lane.  Into the offending Diner.

"You want home fries with that?" the owner asked. 

"It doesn't come with home fries."

"That's O.K.  You want home fries, you'll get home fries." 

I knew she wouldn't charge me.

Tears started to come.

I hurt.  I'm scared.

But the villain isn't people's blistering banter.  The villain is preferring to grow callouses rather than bleed every once in a while.

The Bully Rules

Golden Sprinkles from Golden Boy

Bully season is here.  Here's how it works.  First, pee on the folks you don't like.  If they don't like it, sue them.  If they get up and move, carpet bomb 'em.

You need a bully to stand up for you when you've had your dignity, power and voice stripped by another bully named 'Circumstances'.   Right?

Is it true? There was never a time for me, up until age 18, when some mean, thin skinned bully didn't rule my life.  I mean, that's how the people around me offloaded their pain.  Life was simple.  Old-fashioned might makes right.    Black and white.  Villains and victims.  Me and the people out to get me.   Winners and losers.  'Fair' was something pictured on Saturday Evening Post covers but really rendered on shoot 'm up TV.   When my brother was upset, he'd chase me and wrestle me to the ground.  He'd twist my arm behind my back and grind his elbow into my ribs.  Or he'd wave a knife in front of me.  I should stop egging him on, our mother said.  My big sister looked so far down her nose at me that she confused me for either being nobody or Flossie the cow. My nervous wreck of a mother oozed either stale cigarette and alcohol breath, or contempt for the kids and husband who'd failed her.  

No doubt I would have bullied a younger sibling, but we ran out of siblings. So I survived by dreaming of a time when I'd be famous, and all the bullies would apologize to me.  I'll bet some of yesterday's voters feel Donald will deliver what the bullies have coming.  An apology from them may be the least of it.

I really didn't see it coming, that the bully to top all bullies would be elected president.  Only Putin and North Korea's Kim Jong-un remain, to prove that they are really the world's top bully.  Am I forgetting someone?

I volunteered yesterday, giving rides to democratic voters, so they could support the presidential candidate who was merely careless, cagey, and greedy, and not a bully.

Everyone at the Democratic headquarters was excited she would be our next president.   By 10:30 p.m. I had slunk to bed, afraid to wake up.   Hoping for a miracle.

Now thanks to 279 electoral votes, every parent will have to explain to their children why their president is vulgar, mean and thin skinned.  If only Donald was just a fencepost...

Hallowed Ground, Here and There

Have you ever been able to write a post without feeling like you're in your skivvies teetering on a rock ledge, rope in hand, about to fling yourself out over the water and let go?








Halloween almost escaped me this year.  How did it go at your house? A 20% off coupon texted to my cellphone that day got me moving. In five hours I cleaned the gutters, cleared the leaves off the driveway, and decked out the entryway with spiders, skeletons, spider webs, torches, and glowing orb.  Door bell rang maybe a dozen times, with groups of two to six.  Only once did I scream.  Trump does that to me.

I've linked this blog to my real name, finally, in one tiny Facebook 'closed' group.   Now that I know I am not the curse I thought I was, I hope someone may relate to my story of extreme childhood emotional neglect, and believe they're not cursed by it forever, either. 

Speaking of getting real, I actually confided in someone I know this week that I'm in counselling, recovering from developmental PTSD.  I stop at the Diner on my way and she owns the place.

"Terrific!  My God!" she said.  "Do you know how many of us have trauma in our lives?  I'm writing a book, so people can see behind the person they think they know when they see me." 

Not an easy life she's had, immigrating from Kosovo nearly thirty years ago.

We agreed, our public persona and private self can be a real disconnect. 

I don't want that disconnect any more. I am what I am.

The other big news is that yesterday my big sister defied every piece of advice our dead momma uttered.  She chalked her sentiments on a brick wall outside Wrigley Field.  Posted her graffitti on Facebook, too.   I am so proud of that woman.  For eight years now, she's worked that hallowed ground as a Cubs usher.  Every year - love with heartbreak. Wow. They really did the city of Chicago proud this year.  Congratulations!

If you have come to my blog for the first time, feel free to nose around.  Rest assured, I publish each post with a prayer...."Please God, let there be comments!"

When Do You Get Out Of Yourself?

When do you get out of yourself and start helping others?

Me with Nana, 1953

I texted this question to my spiritual director - the woman who introduced me to so many forms of healing on Kauai last year.

We had lunch earlier this week.  I'd been asked by the Hawaiian Kahuna ( 'Kahuna' as wise woman of Hawaiian spiritual authority, not as in 'Big Kahuna') to give a testimony, to the woman I now sat across from, about the Spiritual Retreat 'Deep Within' she ran one year ago. 

I did not go easy.

"It cracked me open. (We'd had a woman's tribal ceremony, Hawaiian style.)  It was a shattering experience. I flashed back to my mother touching me and all the body abuse flooded in.  I freaked, flooded with shame so real it made my skin crawl.  I went into a tailspin for two months, barely making it through the holidays, my shame was so vivid. It forced me to go into therapy for PTSD.  I am not going back for your next retreat."

She apologized she didn't recognize my reaction at the time.

"It's not surprising.  When I'm stressed I lock down and look calm, cool and collected on the outside. No one has a clue."

"Well," we agreed, "the retreat served its purpose - it went Deep Within".

I suppose I could look at it as my rite of initiation - my demons showed up and I faced them.  I'll still pass on her upcoming retreat:

The Big Island Fire Goddess Pele Retreat

Can you recall crises revealing new wonders in your life?  I'd love to learn if your crises have had their upside.   Because of last year's crisis I have come to finally love little baby me.  I see her and go "Awwww.  She's a little wonder."

Glorious Wonder today. 

Getting back to my question:
When do you get out of yourself and start helping others?

I texted my answer along with that question.  "When you go deep within and link to the lifeline we're all connected to, which opens our eyes to our own value.  And when we link, we agree to our own value and speak from it.  This LOVE lifeline draws us into situations and toward people struggling along the same lines we have.  I believe you would say we're all struggling along the same lines?"

"Yes...this is perfect"  she replied.  "We are all learning who we are.  How we are all connected and what our gifts are so that we can help others as well.  We call those to us with the same or similar vibration."

Well.  hmmm.  This vibration thing.  Maybe I should consider dating again...

'Snorty and Messy' Here. Hi!

"Unwrap yourself, dear. Be yourself.  Let people get to know you" my better angels are telling me.

I went bike riding this week.  Twice.  75 degrees possessed me to pull my bike out of hibernation and don my gear.  The spandex bike panties had a bit more to hold in than two and half months ago.  I picked my brightest, roomiest shirt to divert attention, you know?  I'm sucking in my tummy best I can up there.

Oh my, was it worth it.  Indian summer.  I kind of surprised myself that I had the gas in me to do 40 miles.  Haven't been on that thing in 2 1/2 months.   15 miles by myself on Monday just to be sure I could join the cycling group ride 25 miles on Wednesday. 

This is how it went.

I show up for the ride. "J", the married man who 'innocently' invited me to dinner early this summer, turns his back on me.  "Hello, J...!" I call out.  The guy is deaf.  But "B" is there, and other nice folks.  So "B" and I have a lovely chat about his knees, after I ask him about his bike trip to Italy and France.  Apparently his knees started protesting his riding 300 miles a week, so he nixed the cycling trip through the Alps.  I thought no 70 year old should be cycling through the Alps in the first place, but I didn't tell him that.

"B" is a nice guy, in a cycling fanatic kind of way.  I went out with him once this summer, and before dessert arrived, he had decided I could be his new, um, partner.  There being less compatibility than a deer and a car between us, I told him in no uncertain terms that dating was NOT going to happen.  Group rides only.

I broke that little rule a tiny bit on Wednesday, when he suggested he and I make a detour through this private yacht club on this private peninsula on Long Island Sound.  I'm going to say No on such a wonderful day? 

He really is quite nice.  But group cycling only, I repeated, when he asked me out again.

Back to"J".  Midway through the ride, at our food stop, I went over to him. "J!  How are you?" 

"Shh" he put his finger to his mouth.  "I'm not talking to you."

"You didn't get back to me when I texted you!" I replied, paying not one iota of attention to the "Shh".

"Shhh! I'm not talking to you" and he turns his back.

Just in case you can connect these dots...Here they are. 

Dot #1.  He's very friendly.  He suggests we go riding, just to two of us.
Dot #2. He's married. 
Dot #3.  I ask your advice.  I back out of going on a day trip with him. 
Dot #4.  He remains friendly. 
Dot # 5 He asks my advice about his niece. 
Dot #6  He goes to Israel and when he returns he tells me he has something he brought back for me.  What is my cell number. He's going to call me so he can give it to me.
Dot #7   I don't hear and I head off to Maine. 
Dot # 8  I realize my phone isn't working and I've missed his call, among several, so I text him an apology with the reason.
Dot #9 I don't see him for 2 1/2 months, because I'm not cycling.
Dot #10  Wednesday... "Shhh!"
Dot #11  I text him when I get home, saying "Hope the Shhh doesn't last forever.  It took three technicians and 2 hours at the Microsoft store last weekend to discover my phone was missing notification software.  NOW I'm getting my messages."
Dot #11  Nada.

I think I'm  very happy with the "Shhh!"

Well, that's that for cycling, I think.  Now that chilly weather is on its way, I'll hang my bike shoes up and find another way to whittle my bulge off.

My doctor is quite pleased with me.  "Your numbers never looked this good!" he said last week.  I like good numbers.

I happen to be taking an online course to learn how to date 'smart'.  I did tell you that.  Can't quite claim dating's for me, but it has great discussions in its secret FB group.  People are really opening up, writing about their hopes and dreams.  I love the intimacy and warmth!  The dating concepts are straightforward: be real.  Speak from your heart. 

Sounds like a primer for making friends, except for the sex part, which is pretty important to a lot of folks.  This course is where exercise called the Gift Circle came from.  You contributed?!  That, itself, is worth the price of admission.

Did you know, though, that one of the women in this course used her Gift Circle responses to craft her online dating profile?

I'm waiting to hear what kind of responses she gets.

Have a super weekend!

The Gifts of the Circle of Friends

Hi guys.  Feeling Velveteen Rabbitey here.   The Gift Circle I described last post - where friends reveal what they treasure about each other - is really rubbing the fur off my belly. Oooh!

Here's what my closest friend wrote.  Her answer deserves a whole post. 

"When we first met, you struck me as quiet, easily overlooked, needing [your husband] to support you and perhaps be your compass. You were an artist and maybe a bit “arty” – almost a definition rather than a person.  Over the years I got to know more about you and to like you more and more.  But again, I would describe you by what you did, not who you were.  You were strong and adventuresome – cycling in Europe, taking mosaic classes in Mexico (Mexico?!), spending time in France, camping alone in ME., travelling to the Easter Islands, scattering ashes in Hawaii. And trying to find a soul mate, only to be disappointed time and again.  You were a seeker, but I didn’t know what it was that you sought.

Now I know – you were seeking Flo and you are finding her.  I have been blessed to accompany you on part of this journey and I have seen a scared little rabbit ( 12 years ago) turn into a  beautiful, compassionate, caring friend. The rabbit is coming out of her hole, trusting people more, opening her eyes and looking deeply into mine, daring to be present to others, instead of needing to protect herself at all costs.  You’ve become a person, not a definition – unfinished, as we all are – but someone who is able to feel real feelings and not hide from them, who is coming to love and accept the real Flo and slowly to trust her own truth, even if its scary or different.  You are grounded, Flo, rooted like the plants in your garden. 

 ...I see your core qualities as strength, courage (alone in Maine with the bears!), trustworthiness (I know you’d never betray a secret); faithfulness (nor betray me), a true sense of spirituality and transcendence, which informs your life. And an enormous amount of love, which you’re just discovering and starting to trust.  I think the best way to describe you now is to say that you’re real.  When we talk, we truly “share” and that happens rarely in our world.  That’s why I’m so grateful for your friendship. (Is that a core quality?  If not it should be.  True friendship is a real gift because it implies acceptance.)  Another core gift of yours – you are non-judgmental. There is so much love in you and I’ve seen you begin to open yourself to that, to allow yourself to  feel compassion, trusting you won’t be hurt. When you smile, I feel the love as I never did before and it’s life giving.  Thank you for being my friend. "

Isn't this amazing?  I am easier to read than I thought! 

And being braver and realer....Just this week, I fessed up to a man who wants to be my friend, that with me, comes the elephant in my room - she's snorty, messy, and impolitic.  She comes out with me.  He laughed.  How real you are!  Of course I want to be your friend.

I'd like to bring out Ms. Snorty, Messy, Impolitic.  Do you want to meet her?  You wanna love the fur off of her, too?

Have a lovely weekend, everyone.   The fall colors are striking here in New England.  Tomorrow I'm heading to western Massachusetts to visit my father and my brother, who just had major surgery.  Can't wait to give them hugs!

No Better Use for Love

You voted with your clicks.  I'm humbled by over two hundred visits and several comments this past week.  Thank you!  (And yah, it could have been the sexy title, too.)

I was beginning to feel underwhelming, you see.

No prepared theme today.  I'll see what comes out.

I'm taking this course about 'Deeper Dating'.  Actually it's called the 'Lifelong Love' course, with 'Deeper Dating's author, Ken Page.  How I got into this course with a title like this?  I followed some people I admired in. 

I'm kind like the blindfolded birthday gal playing Pin The Tail On The Donkey these days.  Round and round I spin.  Feeling my way in!

About this 'Lifelong Love' course -  One way to look at it, is to say 'nailed it'!  And this lovely period has reached its conclusion.  BooHoo.  (For those still grieving, I do NOT belittle grieving At ALL.)

Another way to look at it is to be the discoverer.  Simply tweak "Deeper Dating" into "Deeper Relating".  I've got this tail.  Now where is this rump?

Deeper Relating.  You guys know it.  It's that delicious social ease that comes with being absolutely known and absolutely loved through and through. 

Do you know, as a kid I had this idea that only extraordinary people could pin the tail on the donkey's rump?  I mean, considering we all were blindfolded, only people with this mysterious, extraordinary, extrasensory 'gift' that could nail that tail.  Then, for awhile I pouted.  I thought the winners cheated.

But then I met a whole different type of people.   You know what these people do?  You guessed it.  Once they have taken their turn and taken off their blindfold, they help the next player find that donkey's rump.

'Extra' ordinary 'gifts' and cheating have nothing to do with nailing that donkey's tail.   Unless you count teamwork as extraordinary.

So, back to this Lifelong Love Course.  We've gotten to the part called the Gift Circle.  It's where we students pick folks who know us well, and ask them to tell us what qualities they treasure in us.  The idea of Deeper Dating is that love develops through sharing our core gifts, the qualities we feel most vulnerable about.  So many of us don't recognize where our core gifts lie.  (Like being blindfolded with the tail in your hand?)  I've asked my best friend.  I'll share her reply with you, if she gives me permission.  (Ah!  It just popped into my mailbox!)  I'd like to set up a Skype session with a couple other women. 

So asking is the first half of the Gift Circle.

The other half of this Gift Circle involves telling what qualities we treasure in them. 

I've been thinking about what qualities I treasure in you. 

You have this delicious quality of attention.  Towards yourself, towards others, toward what you love doing.  It's this kind of attention that feels into others, into one's own interests and one's self. It observes with care.  All is treasured.  It laughs.  We all have foibles, so here we are.  This quality of attention is the spark that glows, not to light up the room all by itself, not to extinguish itself when it lights the next candle, but to glow along with everyone else, until the whole room is bright.

This is a good use for love -

Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

- Howard Thurman

Impulse Control - Stay? Go? Hide?

Referring back to Christopher Reeve's comment above - I wouldn't have gone into the ocean unless I lost my playmate in the shallow end of the pool.  But this week, though the ocean remains compelling, keeping this Blog going was not.  The reader count of last week's post only inched to 25, f i n a l l y, so Blog Oblivion appealed.  I'm lonely.  I have had trouble keeping up with  all my friend's blog posts recently.   Sorry!

Right now, I'm in one book group, another online course about 'Deeper Dating', and finally addressing the weeds in my yard.  This week I prepared the area for a 14' tall sculpture to be installed.  The sculptor delivered it last Wednesday.  Beautiful!  I meant to post about it - took lots of pictures - but I started writing today, and this came out instead.

Vote!  You want posts about 'Deeper Dating'? Pictures of the sculpture? What I write here?

I'm still reading  The Brain's Way of Healing , and starting to read Eckhart Tolle's 'A New Earth' for next month's book group meeting.  I'm amazed how the brain never stops responding to the stimulation we give it.  How much the brain can grow new capabilities, like sight for eyes once blind, like grasping new spiritual ideas or emotional outlooks.  Clearly, I'm evidence of how much one brain can grow to overcome emotionally traumatic injuries.   You're evidence too, of amazing growth.  How many of you, widows or divorcees or retirees or whatever, could easily step back into your old life, given who you have grown into?  Sometimes I wonder if my late husband could recognize all I've become if he popped back in.

Neuroplasticity in the brain and in our spirit helps me realize that no experience can finish us off.  Yes, our bodies will finish us off, but we have amazing say in how it all shapes out in the meantime.  As a kid, I used to hear "Don't be so open-minded that your brains fall out!".  But this past year and a half, I'm coming around to believing it's required that my brain fall out, if it means coming unstuck from beliefs and identities that bind me.  The world opens up. 

Hah!  I'm becoming so open-minded, my heart's showing!

Still, I felt increasingly disheartened this week, given how long it takes to write one post, that I talked it over with my friend. 

"I write about what excites me! I used to get more hits!  Do I belong here? "

Maybe you need to uproot your blog, out of 'Widowhood' category?

"No"  I said.  Widowhood was my portal.  IS my portal.  This is still about one woman getting her wheels rolling after the emotional hub of her life dies and she's in the ditch.  Bottom line: Widowhood is merely the current wrapping for the precious gift all of us are inside - flawless 'love' beings working out the conundrums of ordinary life.

"So write! "

....So my "Go and Hide' impulse lost out to 'Stay'.

********

Speaking of conundrums and impulse control, are you excited about watching the first debate two days from now?  Hah!  My eyes will be glued.  I wonder...Who will lose impulse control first?  Who will out-disdain the other? 

Such a conundrum.   Do you think we'll come out of this election inspired?

I started chatting with the woman sitting next to me at the Diner this morning.  "Who are you going to vote for?"  I asked.

"Hilary, of course!" 

This led to an animated discussion, during which I said "Me too.  I'm afraid to put my Hilary bumper sticker on my car, though.  Afraid some volatile Trump supporter will take her or his key and scratch their opinion of my preference down the length of my car."

We agreed we'd seen few, if any Hilary OR Trump stickers or lawn signs.   Are you as intimidated as me?  My decision's been made, but I'm not advertising it.

I'm curious.  Are there many political bumper stickers or lawn signs where you live?  Have you decided who you are going to vote for?  I'd love to know!