Stay out of the sun, they said. It causes wrinkles.Protect your skin. But tropical beaches beckoned, and I stretched on warm sands soaking in radiance, not caring about a distant future I may not survive to see.
“The single engine Cessna crashed in the mountains surrounding Oaxaca. The pilot and passenger were killed instantly.”
“A motorbike skidded off the cliff on Mount Batur. Neither driver nor passenger survived.”
“A woman walking the blind curves on the Amalfi coast highway was hit and killed by a speeding car.”
None of that happened. It could have because I was the passenger in both scenarios, and I was the woman walking. But the plane didn’t crash. The motorbike didn’t skid. And the car didn’t even come close.
Instead, I survived to grow wrinkles with memories of a life lived to the brim, adventures, risks, and wondrous moments of sheer magic because the exciting present was far more important to me than an unknown future.
Had I avoided Waikiki beach, the intercontinental flights in that small plane, the exhilarating motorbike rides through the mountains of Bali, and the enchantment of the Amalfi coast, what would I have now?
Wrinkles, because they would have come with age whether I’d lived my wild or not. And what are wrinkles without memories to accompany them?
Just wrinkles.
However, my advice to my daughters:
●Wear sunscreen.
●Avoid tropical beaches.
●Fly only in large commercial aircraft.
●Don’t ever get on the back of a motorbike,
and…
●In Praiano on the Amalfi coast, stick to the stairs!
There are immediate yesterdays and distant yesterdays.
I’ve been immersed in the distant yesterdays of the 1700s. Maria Theresa succeeded King Charles, her father, when he died in 1740 and became queen of Hungary and Bohemia and the Archduchess of Austria at 23 years old. Fredrick the Great, ruler of Prussia, was her fierce adversary.
I’m riveted to Nancy Goldstone’s book, In the Shadow of the Empress. It has taught me more about the players in the history of that period than any schoolroom class ever did.
The story causes me to reflect back on who I was at 23 years old. It’s an embarrassing journey. At that age, I was no more capable of ruling a vast kingdom than I was of making good decisions for my own life.
The painful years of early adulthood bled over into my 30s and 40s until I finally refused to do it that way anymore. At 42, I took control, sent myself back to college, and finished a Bachelor-of-Science degree.
That was a major turning point. I gained confidence, self-respect, and a path to financial independence.
In Paul McCartney’s hit song, Yesterday, he acknowledges that his troubles seemed so far away. In the second verse, he admits that yesterday came suddenly, and in the third, he longs for yesterday. The song culminates as he needs a place to hide away. That place, of course, is yesterday. There was a soul stuck in the past.
It’s easy, as I age, to lose myself in remembering. I mean, after 74 years, there’s a lot of water under the bridge. Oceans, in fact. There was much turbulence, and at times, I nearly drowned. But I recall best the stretches of fair winds and blue skies. Joyous days. Epic adventures. Love and belonging.
The challenge now is to keep the story moving forward, to continue to dream and believe those dreams into being. The vision has to be big enough and juicy enough to excite me, like building my house did, because, frankly, there’s not enough energy for smallness.
Without a dream, I’m caught in saṃsāra, the five realms of hell the soul travels through after death. I could be a happy Buddhist if it weren’t for the final scenario of that belief system!
So…
It’s time for a new plan, a project. I have no clarity as to what that looks like, but I’m leaning toward adventure. However, I do know with certainty that I’m nowhere near ready to dwell in the past, no matter how glorious. Yesterdays belong to yesterday.
I know it’s way, way too early, but I’ve been bitten by the Christmas bug and have started a frenzied accumulation of holiday decor.
Why now, I ask myself. Why at this particular point in my life have I suddenly become obsessed with Christmas? It has nothing to do with religion – I am far more Buddhist in my practices than anything else. But as darkness descends earlier, and daylight hides under a pallor of gray clouds, I’ve developed a voracious hunger for color and sparkle.
I blame this early obsession partly on the closure of Highway 169 through Aitkin, my familiar trail to the Twin Cities, and partly on Family Pathways Thrift Stores. On my recent trips to Minneapolis to see grandsons, I was forced to take Highway 65. Who knew that route was litered with golden thrifting opportunities right on the road in plain sight?
Bargain shopping is an addiction and I will not, under any circumstances, resist the urge to stop and peruse for treasures. The fact that I always find something wonderful feeds the demon.
I wasn’t familiar with Family Pathways Thrift, so when the sign appeared requiring a simple left turn at the light, my pulse quickened.
Just inside the door was a winter wonderland. Oh, my! Wreaths and garlands, baubles, trees, and ribbons, elves, candles, reindeer, strings of lights…a Cornucopia of Christmas paraphernalia, and I was hooked. Doomed. Thrilled!
I made a haul, got in the car, and twenty miles down the road, there! Could it be? Another Family Pathways!
Of course, I stopped and spent two more hours of sheer shopping bliss. If anything, there was even more abundance at that location.
I’m almost embarrassed to say, but I made a third stop. Heritage Thrift. I mean…it was RIGHT THERE! I could not in good conscience bypass it. I found a pair of beautiful leather boots, a sweater, scarf, and gloves.
What is usually a 3-hour trip from my house to my daughter’s, that day took 7 hours.
I never shop retail. Boring! I much prefer to be surprised. And I always get 3 or 4 times more for the dollars spent. Plus, the items I find are unique and special, like I said, treasures.
Thrifting isn’t for everyone. My daughters have made that perfectly clear. But it’s a harmless hobby, and I like the idea that I’m part of the recycling circle. When I’ve finished with the things I aquire that others have donated, I turn around and donate them again.
This last trip back from the Cities, 169 was open. Before I started home, I Googled Family Pathways and, sure enough, two of the towns I’d pass through had stores. Unlike my Hwy 65 route, I’d have to leave the highway. Did I care? Is the Pope Catholic?
Needless to say, I’m set for the holidays. As of today, my lighted, 6′ tree stands sentinel on the deck.
Is it terribly gauche of me not to wait until after Thanksgiving? Or at least until it snows?
My sister says her cilantro plants are starting to grow again. They’re outside! Who knows, snow may be a thing of the past. I’m not waiting.
When did the lights go on? The tectonic plates shift? When did the things that mattered so much yesterday become unimportant but everything else intensified? When did life turn inside out?
There were decades when I lived from the outside in.
When I obsessed about makeup, clothes, body shape, the color of my nail polish…
…when my legs and armpits still grew hair and I shaved it off…
…when I braided my girls’ long locks, chose their clothes, monitored their behavior so it reflected positively on me…
When I remember those times, I sigh and shake my head.
I spent years looking toward a future where things would be easier, better, safer, and numbed out to the present because most of it was either too mundane or too hard.
That changed when I turned sixty-two, took early retirement, and moved to Indonesia. I had to leave to save the only life I could save, as Mary Oliver so eloquently states in her poem, The Journey.
Every day was new, utterly different, and unpredictable. The present was a glorious place to be. I plunged in headfirst and submerged myself in the culture, the language, the food, and the kindness. I’d never known such joy.
I learned Indonesian by writing the English word on one side of an ice cream stick and the corresponding Indonesian word on the other. Then memorized. Memorized. Memorized.
But, the day I jumped on the back of the motorbike and wound up the mountain to AbangSongan to meet Ketut’s family, I was blindsided by the unfathomable poverty of his mountain village. It shocked me into awareness of the incredible privilege I took for granted as an American white woman.
And yet, those people were happy. They had their tight-knit family compounds, their hectares of land bestowed upon them by the king, and their Hindu rituals of daily prayers and offerings. Walking among them in humility that bordered on grief, a burning determination to make a difference bloomed in my conscience.
Gratitude for the Bali years knows no bounds. That’s where I became who I am. That’s where I began to live from the inside out, making choices from my heart that would benefit those less fortunate. I built a B&B and paid Ketut and his family to manage it. Ruamh Jelita – Beautiful House. When I left Bali, I gave it to them. They’re doing well.
I had become proactive in the moment rather than wasting time waiting for some unknown better place. I’d arrived. I was occupying my better place.
Even though I’m back in Minnesota now, I haven’t reverted to the old patterns of numbing out to the present and hoping for a better future. (Who knows how much future is left?) I’ve been on the mountaintop. The path slopes downhill from here. There will be stunning sunrises and joyous times along the way. I’m in excellent health so the end probably isn’t imminent. But I’ve learned how to inhabit my life. Engage with intention. Ponder the knottier questions, daring to dive into dreams trusting that I can manifest them because I have.
Envisioning a home
Living from the outside, from the shallow illusions of conformity to social norms, expectations (usually self-inflicted) and preconceptions of what should be, is a slow and tortuous soul-death. I would remind you, whoever you are, whether you’re in the prime of life or closing in on old age, we get one shot at this. As far as we know, nobody has returned from the Great Beyond for a re-do.
I urge you, make the necessary corrections now. Don’t waste another minute. Grab hold of your own life and become who you are…from the inside out.
In 2009, a new cartoon game for kids featured colorful angry birds trying to save their eggs from malicious green pigs. According to the web, the red bird developed his anger issues from being deserted by his parents before he hatched. Then, he was bullied by other birds. It was a popular game, and kids who played it would be in their late teens or twenties by now.
But those cartoonish games were benign compared with what is available to my grandchildren. It’s terrifying…truly terrifying.
I was babysitting one evening and we’d been watching Bluey. I love Bluey! For my purposes, let’s pretend Bluey is Bingo’s brother, even though in the show they are sisters. They’re Australian cattle dogs with the sweetest accents. Of course, there’s mischief but it’s harmlessly playful and fun.
I could watch Bluey all day, but the kids had seen enough and were clamoring for something else. So, unsuspecting Granny started flipping through kid channels looking for an alternative. Ah! There was one with trains. I’d seen numerous episodes of Thomas the Train and thought that’s what I’d found. We cuddled in to watch.
I have to admit, sometimes my mind drifts when the storyline doesn’t engage me. Such was the case when, in the midst of my daydream I heard, I’ll kill you, you little bastard, coming from the TV. HUH? My attention was riveted to those big bad engines running over defenseless baby trains with language that curdled my blood. This was not Thomas the Train!
The TV went off with only a few minor complaints from the kids. They knew better.
Who creates those atrocities, and why? Why the violence? The language? What about those children who have unmonitored access, the ones who watch those creepy cartoons and play killing games? They’re being programmed in ways pre-tech generations never were. Perhaps most disturbing is the fact that cartoon and gaming evil seem to go unpunished, or worse, rewarded. There are no consequences,
It’s not just a kid thing, either. What news media gets noticed, especially now with the heated political climate? What’s more entertaining? Is it the smiling face of Kamala Harris and the unpolished charm of Tim Walz? Or are we mesmerized by the toxic vitriol from the Trump/Vance team? Don’t we all wait with morbid curiosity to see who they’ll disparage and mock next?
It’s a little like Bluey and Bingo vs. The Angry Birds and I’m so over it – so ready to change the channel.
We don’t have much longer to wait. Out here in the wilderness, my ballot is mailed to me. I’ve already voted. I know all my readers aren’t of the same persuasion as I, but voting is one of our most cherished rights, especially for women and people of color who weren’t always granted that privilege. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly.
So, dear friends, even if what it boils down to for you is an attempt to determine the lesser of two evils, please choose and vote. Then sit down and watch an episode or two of Bluey. But unless you’re equally as tech-savvy as a 7-year-old, and want to double-up on your blood pressure meds, don’t even try to play Angry Birds.
There’s a section of the vision board I haven’t dealt with. Upper left quadrant. There it is. I can’t move on to create a new board until this one has fulfilled its mission, until I’ve done the deep dive into the subconscious messages represented here that are running my show. This is the last one. It’s daunting and I’ve avoided it, especially the part about the inner goblin. Who wants to face that?
Here’s the magic. As I sat down to write, I had no clue what my inner goblin might be. But as soon as I isolated the image posted at the top of this page, I laughed out loud. In my face was the reality that, at this point in my life, I’m experiencing resistance to New Possibilities and New Ideas – new anything for that matter.
That isn’t who I’ve always been. I’m adventurous, up for anything, raring to go, right? Suggesting that might have changed makes me think I’m getting old. Please don’t laugh and say, “You ARE OLD!” Age is a state of mind. You’re as old as you believe you are, and I believe myself to be approximately forty-ish, at least in measurable energy if not in looks…that ship has sailed. I just took a selfie to see how many wrinkles I could make. Unfit for publication. Too much truth.
To suggest I’m satisfied with the status quo is an understatement. To imply I’m stuck there might be true. But when you’ve got it so good that you can hardly believe you’re that fortunate, why wish for anything else? I’m close to family yet independent. I have a vibrant community. My house is everything I ever wanted. I look out my windows at peaceful fields and magnificent trees.
I could go on and bore you to tears, so I won’t, but the message is clear. I’m happy.
The catch, then, is OPEN-NESS. Despite deep contentment, am I willing to fall into something new? Do I need to be? The goblin would suggest that, yes, I do. But, if I’m perfectly honest, I don’t even want to be presented with the possibility of something new. There’s been so much change in my life. I’m ready to settle, ready for stability, ready to plant myself in this safe place and just be.
So perhaps the inner goblin is the feeling that I SHOULDN’T be content with that. I never have been before. I’ve needed adventure, challenge, change. Distractions. From what? Probably, from knowing that life is finite. There’s an end and let’s not get there with regrets, things left undone, sights unseen, adventures unexplored.
Well, that end is in sight. Not imminent, but clearly on the horizon. I’ve gone where I wanted to go, seen what I’ve wanted to see, had adventures enough for two lifetimes. The itches have been scratched. So, inner goblin, wither and die you bothersome fiend! I am where I am, what I am, who I am, and until I say otherwise, I’m unrepentantly delighted.
We need special people in our lives. When I moved to Bali, I didn’t know a soul. After a few inquiries online, I located a writers group (Steve Castley, Ubud Writers) and was invited to join their exclusive circle. I lived and breathed for those bi-monthly get-togethers.
I loved the comradery, but as writing critics, they were ‘Minnesota nice’ to the extreme. Coming from the brutally honest cutthroat feedback I was used to, I had to choke down their compliments like too-sweet cough syrup. But I was the newbie trying to fit in.
After several meetings, I spoke up. “I know you have a rule that only positive feedback is allowed, and I respect that. But I want to grow as a writer. You have my permission to rip my work to shreds. Give me some real help, please!”
Silence fell like doom over the group. Then someone said, “Same for me.” Then, “Me too!”
Looking back, I wonder if I was the catalyst for the transformation that took place. One-by-one, people dropped out. Those who remained were hard-core and committed to the craft. I’d found my tribe.
When I moved to San Miguel de Allende, I knew one person, ReAnn Scott. She happened to be the connector-type with hundreds of contacts. There was no writers group, but there were rooftop parties, happy-hour meet-ups, and rumicub game days. Friendships bloomed.
Then, I landed here in the heart of the Midwest. Two years passed as I focused every ounce of energy on creating a place to live. I had my sister and brother-in-law and a smattering of relatives nearby. Bear, an old family friend, moved in next door. There was no lack of social interaction. But every-so-often, I’d find myself wondering how I could make new acquaintances. Everyone had been here for generations. As I recalled, they were good for a brief ‘hello’ before turning back to their comfortable familiars.
I’m not remarkably outgoing. I can summon up the necessary mojo when circumstances warrant it. But I’m quite thrilled with my own company most of the time.
And yet, when wind whistles across barren fields and clouds race each other in a frenzy to block the sun, nothing feels cheerier than a pot of steaming coffee with a friend.
When I learned that a traveling library visited the nearby community center every other Thursday, I was curious. Don’t get me wrong. There is no shortage of reading material in the codger community. Gwen and W’s library is a cornucopia of murder, mystery, and sci-fi. I have full access.
Bear’s new bookshelves bristle with war, history, and philosophy.
It would take several lifetimes to wade through all that literature.
So, books aside, I mostly wanted to know who would show up for a literary event.
My sister agreed to go with me that first time. As we entered, we were greeted with warm Hellos and Good mornings. There was a long table holding bins of books. Beyond that were two more tables. Around one, eight men chatted and drank coffee. A cluster of women were seated at the other, also deep in conversation. One of them pointed us to the coffee pot and gathered two more chairs so we could join them. Books, obviously, were an afterthought, an excuse for a neighborhood meetup.
The Bookmobile has become an important entry on my calendar. It holds great promise as a source of friendships. The challenge to find like-minded people no longer feels daunting. Oh! And there’s an added bonus: I can go online and order any book I want. It will be delivered to me via the Bookmobile on the following Thursday.
There is something about the ease of that service that feels luxurious. Indulgent. And the genuine inclusivity of the women, so unexpected, sends warmth radiating straight to my heart.
I should have known when the Universe whispered, the Farm, just as years before it had whispered, Bali, then, San Miguel, I could proceed with confidence. Friendships would come, the path would appear, and I could trust the unfolding.
I’ve ignored the upper right quadrant of my Vision Board. It seemed too big. It held a command, and I typically don’t take kindly to commands. Requests – all day every day – but demands? No.
There it stood, in upper case letters, shouting at me. My eyes avoided looking there and wandered instead through less bossy areas where my autonomy felt respected.
But, as with everything on those tattle-tale boards, yesterday I knew the time had come. I needed to address the goblin lurking in the corner. I fixed my gaze on the words:
MAKE IT ICONIC
and let them mash around in my brain for a bit.
What did it mean? Make WHAT iconic? The day? My writing? Conversation? And how is iconic defined? I checked out Miriam Webster and the Urban Dictionary and decided that for my purposes, iconic means something outstanding in its category.
My thoughts immediately came to rest on my house. In the category of hunting shacks, it’s beyond exceptional. I took a look at my three immediate neighbors and the daily interactions we share. How we came together in this remote corner of northern Minnesota and contribute so beneficially to each other’s well-being is nothing short of extraordinary.
And my children, my three daughters, every single one of them, OMG! Iconic!
My travels have been iconic. Friendships with people from every corner of the world. Iconic.
As my mind wandered back over the years I saw that nothing about me or my path has been anything less than outside the box. Some was iconically tragic. I didn’t do just every day, humdrum dreadful. When I went to the shadow side, I went all the way down. But I recovered and always found a way back to solid ground.
Like the ah-hah when solving a riddle, it landed with a flash. MAKE IT ICONIC wasn’t a directive for the future. It was a commentary on the been there, done that of the past. The energy of the board wanted me to reflect and realize the incredible wealth of experiences that populate my memories.
I’m guessing, with my sun in Capricorn and centuries of marauding Viking ancestors in my DNA, I might struggle to be ordinary. It’s only been since retirement that I completely escaped the chokehold of expectation. Nobody forced it on me. Well… Maybe Mom… “Sit like a lady.” “Don’t hold hands with a boy in public or people will wonder what you do in private!” Okay. Yes. I was held to my mother’s Victorian moral standards and somewhat terrified of disappointing my parents which I managed to do fairly regularly.
There are things we can control. Other things are part of our genetic programming, giving us a predisposition to tameness or wildness, acceptance or disruption, passivity or aggression, friendliness or reclusiveness, optimism or pessimism, book smarts or street smarts. Some of us have to work harder to be socially acceptable than others.
When we stop working so hard, when what people think no longer holds sway, we become who we are. And when we live our truth, iconic happens.
Have you noticed that some people seem to exist in a continuous state of contentment? They wear a smile and glow with sheer goodness. I have a daughter and sister like that.
Me? I have to work at it. There are moments when I’m relaxed and at peace with all things. But they are fleeting and rare.
Yesterday, I finished yoga and settled into meditation.
I’ve found that the Universe knows a lot more than I do, and when I take time to ask and listen, the answers are there. After a few deep breaths, shutting out the chatter and distraction of hundreds of cacophonous crows squawking joyously in the grain field, I was ready. I didn’t have to wait. “What’s next?” popped out of the cobwebby corners and lit up my frontal lobe.
It had only been one day since Sis and I hauled the last load of construction debris to the dump.
The house was finished. The yard was spotlessly clean. The garage finally had room for the car.
Had life ended, or was it about to begin?
It’s no wonder, What next? was uppermost in my mind.
I sat there, curious about what revelations would come forth. Then these words appeared hovering in the dark place behind my eyes: the discipline of acceptance. They faded and were followed by these: the discipline of contentment. That was it. I offered gratitude and put away my mala beads from Bali and the amber ring from San Miguel de Allende, talismans that aid my journies into the mysterious beyond.
Throughout the day, I fixated on the cryptic messages. Never before had I equated discipline with acceptance or contentment. Those ideas were meaty mind food, and that night I fell asleep still chewing on them.
In the moody fog of morning, I pulled out my journal and began a rehash of activities of the previous day. But instead of what I did and how I did it, my pen took over. THE DISCIPLINE OF ACCEPTANCE, it wrote in all caps. You are responsible for everything about your life. Wisdom tumbled out faster than I could write. But I caught the essence as follows.
Rather than seeking someone else to blame for imperfections in your life, turn the spotlight on yourself. Blame is toxic. It creates resentment, even hatred, and the result can make you physically ill. If you can say instead, ‘This is what is. This is my body now. These are the circumstances I am faced with. I will not point the finger or blame anyone else. I accept this as it is at this moment and I will do what it takes to overcome my pain and displeasure around the situation.’ If you can say that and do that, you are ready to unpack your emotions and take responsibility.
I admit that I feel angry, but anger is counterproductive. It doesn’t serve me. I choose not to be angry.
I feel grief. Grief is an acceptable and warranted emotion. I will allow grief to run its course.
I feel depressed. I know that turning my focus to healthy lifestyle choices like walking, singing, writing, painting, drawing, exercising, and meditating, will serve to lessen the despondency.I choose to take action.
What acceptance DOESN’T MEAN…
It doesn’t mean you stop trying to change the circumstances. Acceptance is moment by moment. This is what is right now, and this is what I need to do to improve the situation. Acceptance is not giving up. It’s a choice not to wallow.
When you choose the discipline of acceptance you recover control over your thoughts, your emotions, and your life. The grim elephant sitting on your chest, filling your heart with heaviness and dread, moves on. It cannot remain where it isn’t allowed.
When acceptance has been achieved – that state of resigned endurance, “Okay, this is what it is until it isn’t,” you move on to the discipline of contentment.
Contentment is the higher calling, perhaps the highest state of being we mere mortals can hope to achieve. It’s easier to be content when everything is going smoothly. But to be content, say, when your elderly parent requires more and more of your time; when your finances take a dive and leave you struggling; when health issues arise; when your child is unhappy – contentment in the face of difficulty is a challenge. But it is not insurmountable.
Contentment comes on the heels of acceptance and is laced with gratitude. It requires a shift away from the negatives to focus on all the good that still exists for you. Choosing contentment requires mastery of the mind, agency over thoughts, flexibility to enact change, a heart of gratitude, and above all, an unwavering belief that your goals are worth fighting for – that your life, in spite of and because of, is worth living.
I watched Fixer Upper, enthralled as Chip and Jo Gaines renovated old houses. Then Magnolia, Joanna’s magazine, arrived on the scene with inspiring interior design ideas, delicious recipes, and pertinent articles. It’s one of the only periodicals besides Astronomy magazine I read cover to cover. (A nice right brain, left brain balance, wouldn’t you say?)
Magnolia’s summer 2024 editionhas a story at the end: Chip Gets the Last Word. He talks about loving the demolition process in old houses, but not necessarily for the thrill of destruction. For him, he says, it’s more about discovery, the potential to uncover a treasure beneath the scarred and often ugly surface. At the end he writes, Maybe we’re all built to break things open, then to build ourselves back up again. That way we never fully lose the pieces that make us whole.
You know me, I embrace going deep, and, boy! Oh, boy! His essay sent me hurtling to the depths of my psychological past in search of those pieces. The hard work of my construction project enabled me to avoid opening that can of squirmies. But something lurked in the shadows, and now that the work was done there were no more excuses. Time to address the skeleton in the closet…the elephant in the room. The article was timely.
Breaking things open in the subconscious isn’t easy. Stuff gets buried, especially painful or shameful episodes in our personal history. It isn’t like taking a sledgehammer to a wall. But when something triggers an undesirable response, it’s a cue to investigate the why, to sift through layers of avoidance, denial, deflection, delusion, and figure it out so we can heal. So we can recover the pieces that make us whole.
I’m dealing with one of those avoidance/denial things right now, a very old pattern that I don’t want to repeat. Full disclosure. Here goes!
I’m restless. I have uprooted my life over and over again to seek new thrills, new horizons, new challenges. I know this about myself yet I’ve been unable to put that demon to death. Where did it come from, the inability to stay satisfied? The insatiable need for something more?
I’ll admit at the moment I’m afraid. I’ve created an idyllic place to retire. It’s taken perseverance, time, energy, creativity, inspiration, and dogged persistence to get here. And now…
it’s finished.
Will that itchiness that makes me squirm in my own skin return? Will what I’ve created be enough? Can I settle for peace, ease, the warmth of family, stability, a predictable life?
Here’s what I learned as I backpedaled through childhood. Work was praised. Accomplishments were rewarded. Travel was idealized. Expectations were high. I remember as clearly as if it were yesterday holding mother’s hand as we walked out of the classroom on the last day of kindergarten. At the door, my teacher stopped us. “Sherry, I expect great things from you,” she said. I was six years old.
I expect great things from you. What does that even mean?
She was my first teacher. The voice of authority. I respected her, performed at my best for her, lived and breathed for her approval. And I’ve never stopped.
That’s it, isn’t it?
Part of me got stuck at six years old. My entire life, I was still trying to please her, never quite satisfied with my accomplishments, always chasing the elusive expectation of greatness.
If I’d been a different sort of child, her statement might have passed right over me. But I was a serious little girl, hungry for affirmation. I had to win every race, ace the tests, be the best.
She couldn’t have known the heavy burden she lay on my shoulders that day. How her words burned into my soul and shaped my life.
At seventy-four-almost-five, I shouldn’t be worrying that this isn’t enough. Holding my breath hoping it is. Feeling a bubble of panic prickling my chest as I envision the future. I know what I want and I have it. All the boxes are checked. That’s a first for me. And, Oh! My! God! It’s scary!
writing for self-discovery 
Comments