Another Aspect in Living a Wholehearted Life

There's still bright yellow in remaining leaves to add a brilliance to the overcast morning. Here is it going on 9 a.m. and it's still dreary-dark. I've just now finished my morning pages, later than usual and six pages! A lot went on yesterday, and this morning the fire is lit over some reading I did last night in “The Gifts of Imperfection” by Brene Brown. I have to share, even before buckling down to this week’s newspaper work.

I only spent maybe 10-15 minutes in reading and jotting down a few notes. I'm always amazed when I read something I've read before, but this time, the spark ignited the tinder and the flames roared.

So, the chapter title of last night's reading was "The Things That Get in the Way." And Brown talks about times in her life she faltered and fell on her face, times when she was imperfect -- in front of audiences. 

Here is what she said is the bottom line to living wholeheartedly (which was a big revelation for her and really stands out for me, too): 

"If we want to live and love with our whole hearts, and if we want to engage with the world from a place of worthiness, we have to talk about things that get in the way -- especially shame, fear, and vulnerability." – Brene Brown

She said it's not a how-to and it's not listing 10 easy steps/tips for a better life. There are no shortcuts; shortcuts are seductive. We have to slog through, not live, the swamps (of our lives). And this reminded me of her quoting Teddy Roosevelt's arena speech in another book: 

The following is known as the “The Man in the Arena” and an excerpt from the “Citizenship in a Republic” speech given by Theodore Roosevelt at the Sorbonne, Paris, France on April 23, 1910.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

This is the most meaningful piece of writing I think I've ever read! It always brings tears. Because we DO have to get in the arena! We get dirty and we make mistakes. We have to slog through the swamp to live wholeheartedly, with love, compassion, openness – and our imperfections. It's not about famous people. It's about us, every day people trying to live a good life, an honest life with integrity, and doing the best we can. There are no quick and easy steps.

What I also realized last night, was this is what I've been trying to do in my writings and conversations. Stories let people know we are not alone in our struggles. Stories are not happily-ever-afters – which may seem so for a short time, but life is life. Maybe the Buddhists are right; life is a struggle.

But we don't have to let the struggles get us down ... or keep us down. That doesn’t mean we can’t live good, happy-for-the-most-part lives. We find the strength to get up when we slip in the mud and fall flat on our faces. We dust off our clothes, put ointment on bruises, shake off the pain, and move on. We do what we can and ask for help when we need to. We figure things out. And make time to enjoy breaks, look at the beauty around us, love ... 

We can tell our truths and don't have to pretend life is perfect, that everything is hunky-dory. We can look our shame, despair, fear, and vulnerabilities in the face and say, "I can be better! I am not defeated! I intend to live life fully and wholeheartedly!" And stand tall while saying it!

Also, telling our true stories is not a woe-is-me. It's that, when we are not telling our true stories, we are hiding issues which gives them power over us. It's holding secrets (the secret of shame, fear, vulnerability) which then silently eats away at our souls. Talking things out brings light to those dark places and releases us.

Yeah, sometimes we need to tell the story more than once, but if we're doing it with the intent to heal ourselves and live a wholehearted life, we are climbing the ladder out of our dark wells. Telling our stories releases those things that get in the way; the things that hold us back from living a wholehearted, balanced life.

Sharing stories connects us to others also striving to live better lives. We are not alone and when we share connection, we help one another and help make our communities and the world a better place.

This Thing Called Love

There’s less leaves and the colors are fading. The dark brook water shimmers with pale blue light as it wends it way between the rocks and forms a pool within my sight. It’s cold this morning and by 8:30 a.m., the thermometer has not yet reached 40 degrees.

I put on painting clothes this morning figuring this afternoon should be warm enough to finish painting the new garage steps. This might be the last day of fairly warm weather until spring.

Leo, the cat, came by while it was still dark, just before 7. I couldn’t see him, but he reaches out and rattles the screen to the sliding door when he wants in. He ate the breakfast Pele hadn’t finished, then asked to go back out, his tail spotted with burrs. (I don’t know from what, they’re flattish … almost reminding me of a black forked tongue of a snake.

Yesterday I got on the topic of love again. Every so often I go through this and it’s an issue I struggle with. (Maybe it’s from living alone.) This go ‘round with the subject came after reading a section from “The Gifts of Imperfection” by Brene Brown.

I’ve read this book before, but evidently, I haven’t done the self-work needed to move past the heartache of past loves. I like myself and I’m happy with where I am in my life, but can I say I love myself? Have I been so wounded by love in the past that I will never dare love again?

Gosh, just writing about this makes my gut cringe with fear. Fear?

Brown says, “If we want to fully experience love and belonging, we must believe we are worthy of love and belonging.”

Do I not believe I’m worthy? Is there a gremlin inside whispering I’ve failed so many times I should hold back and never love again?

The answers do not come easy. It can be very confusing. Love is complicated because there are so many nuances of love. There’s the love for mate/spouse, love for family, friends, and pets. And, look at how many things we can love – and with passion: music, nature, art, books, etc. That one word, LOVE, encompasses so much!

Should love of self be up front? Many believe if you don’t love yourself, how can you fully others? Can I love myself? And if I can’t say I love myself, can I really love others?

I love my family. I love my friends. I love lots of things, but do I FEEL loved? Ahhh, maybe this is the crux of the matter. Logically, I know they love me, but do I feel the love in my heart, in my whole being? Ah, here’s the dilemma. When I don’t feel loved is when I feel lonely.

Which sometimes doesn’t make sense. For instance, yesterday I went to breakfast with an artist friend and we had the most wonderful conversations covering many topics. Later I had conversation with others, so why did I sit here feeling lonely?

I thought about how easy it is to let the words, “Love you,” roll off your tongue or typed at the end of an email or letter. Yes, I love them, but how often is it said putting feeling into the meaning?

It reminds me when you ask someone how they are and they reply, “Fine.” How are you and fine are just words in greeting and too often have no real caring by the asking and response. When you ask, do you really CARE how the other feels? I do, but I also realize how easily these words slip out just to be said.

Saying “Love you” (or “Love you, too” as a response) can have the same feel. It’s something you’re supposed to say to those you love. And we have to say it because it’s important to let those you love, know you love them … though we probably don’t say it to friends, and yet, we do love them.

So, what does all this mean? I’m not 100% sure yet, but it’s something to think about.

I know one thing that holds me back is the sexual side of love, and sex isn’t anything I ever care about again. I have men friends who I love – as I love my women friends – as friends. But I could never say that. Plus, there’s that old stickler of “neighbors will talk.”

Oh gosh, this gives me a chuckle and goes back to my unmarried uncle years ago being nervous when my mum and aunt visited for fear the neighbors would talk about him having women in his house – even though they were his sisters.

Thank you for listening. It helps me sort through life as I strive to live wholeheartedly. Maybe the situation isn’t as complicated as I’m making it. But I feel there’s something missing in me. It’s probably love – maybe I need to fully let it in to feel it – and I’ve forgotten how to do that. And trust I can be loved with no strings attached.

Another hour has passed, and the thermometer now reads over 40 degrees. The titmice, chickadees, and cardinals are searching the deck for seeds. Guess it’s time to put up the feeders – I LOVE my little birdies!

Making my house fit my needs

The view out the back door is more yellow than green these days. There’s more openness in the foliage allowing clearer views of the neighbors’ houses across the brook, and across the street, I can see part of a building on the next road over.

The rocks in the brook are laden with fallen leaves and the water level low enough I can’t easily see from my chair. I love the way the colorful leaves line the opposite banking filling in crevices in rocks and big tree roots going up the hill.

Acorns drop on the roof and deck with loud plops. Was it just a week or so ago when the only color beyond the deck was green?

When I moved here in 2015 and began Sasha-fying this house, I had – discussions – with the contractor doing the renovations. I didn’t buy this house thinking about resale value. I bought it to live here, maybe for it to be my forever house! I didn’t want my home to look like every other house. I didn’t use colors or décor to keep up with the latest design fashions, and I needed structure to support me and make my life a little easier.

In the ensuing four years, I decided what’s considered code doesn’t always fit me. For instance, the bottom railing on my deck I want high enough for the shovel to be able to push snow off in winter.

“But that’s not to code. A child could fall through,” I was told. 

But this is my house and no children live here! And, as I’m getting older, to lift a shovelful of snow up over the railing is nearly impossible considering code height for the railing brings the top just about waist height on me. Heck, lifting a shovelful above my knees is a strain on my arthritic back!

I actually like shoveling snow if it’s a reasonable depth and weight. Plus, I want to do as much as I can as long as I can, so if I need a wider space between deck floor and bottom rail then I want it.

Stairs are another hardship with my short legs, weight, bad knees, and lessening flexibility. The contractor insisted on building the outside steps to the 7-inch-rise code which is difficult for me to get up and down. Going up I physically pull myself to the next step holding onto both railings on either side, and going down, I need to grip the railing tightly to prevent losing my balance and falling. That makes carrying anything extremely hazardous.

I convinced him to build the inside steps from the garage to the house with a 5-inch rise. The 2-inch difference makes it much easier for me to get up and down steps. Unfortunately, he made the inside treads only a little bigger than my shoe size which meant I’d either catch my toe coming up, almost tripping, or I’d catch my heel going down. More than once I would have fallen if I’d not had a tight grip on the railing going up the steps or wall studs going down. (There was only a railing on one side.)

And if I had trouble, I worried about people with bigger feet. I’ve been able to carefully go up the steps clutching the railing these past four years, but to go down, I’d creep sideways gripping each wall stud along the way.

My worry increased after I took the header on the deck on Aug. 9. Thankfully, I fell up a step and not down the stairs, but this made my awareness of stairs and balance more pronounced. However, accidents happen and sometimes when hurrying, I don’t pay complete attention – which was why I fell.

This week’s news, which I’m very excited about, is my neighbor rebuilt the steps from the garage to the house. These days safety is my biggest concern and I am determined the stairs from the garage to the house should be best for me.

You can see where the old wood ends inches
from the corner of the door.

There was also the issue with the door to the back deck. It was next to the first step down from the landing! I had to be careful when stepping inside or out. One inattentive couple inches to the right or left, depending on which way I was going, and it’d be a tumble down the steps. 

The first job after removing the old stairs was to bring the landing out to the next wall stud before making the first step down. Now there’s room to get in and out to the deck without fear of falling. He built a box to fit the wall studs for stability with strong legs and pressure-treated bottoms for the other side.

He continued the box idea for the new wider treads with the rise of steps still at 5 inches. Each box/tread is just under 16 inches deep, 32 inches wide, supported by strong legs on one side and screwed into the wall studs on the other. It’s incredibly solid.

New stairs

The added width to the treads, however, means the stairs extend farther along the back wall of the garage right up to the built-in storage rack. The last step is a turn out into the garage, but it works just fine.

He built two strong railings; the inner rail used the old railing plus a little more, and the second railing was attached to the studs of the outer wall. We had a discussion on the angles of the railings. They are not the same angle or height. I went up and down the steps many times to determine my comfort and stability level. We settled for asymmetry because this new build fits my comfort and safety needs.

The width between landing and first cross board allows space
to put groceries and packages without having to carry them
up the steps

One last thing I want to mention about building to fit me. I kept the higher bottom railing the original contractor built on the landing (again not to code). This allows space to place groceries and such without having to carry heavy packages up the stairs putting added strain on my back and knees. This little feature has been wonderful, and I love it!

For years I’ve listened to “resale value” and “code,” and you know what? Now I’m doing things for my safety and comfort, and while something may not be ascetically pleasing, if it works for me, so be it! 

I am very happy with this new set up and easily can go up and down these steps. Now I just need to paint them!

Learning to Fly

(“Learning to Fly” happens to be one of my favorite Pink Floyd songs and I thought this title appropriate when writing about a newly hatched monarch butterfly.)

Yesterday, I let neighbor kitty, Leo, out and he immediately leapt from the porch and went after something in the nearby rhododendron. I looked over the rail. It was a newly hatched monarch butterfly!

“No, Leo!” I shooed him away, grabbed my camera, and commenced to photograph this beautiful creature’s first movements … the slow spreading of wings, the careful movement of its whole body as it attempted to crawl from the bottom of the leaf.

“Raoww aowww.” I turned to see Leo with a chickadee. For crying out loud, in those few minutes of watching the butterfly, he’d grabbed a bird and wanted me to see.

“Nooo, Leo, not one of the pretty, little birds!” He came and rubbed against my legs then went back to the spot and ate the entire bird but for two feathers.  A cat will be a cat. I can’t be mad, and I can’t dwell on it. But what a juxtaposition … one thing comes into being and another leaves this world. I returned to watch the butterfly.                    

Imagine wrapping yourself in a nice, cozy cocoon, going to sleep and waking with an entirely new body. Imagine trying to move a strange arm or wing; something totally alien to you; trying to move your whole body for the first time.

Once you were a long thin creature with head, eyes, mouth, and legs. Now you are totally transformed. How do you finagle this new body? How does it work?

Each step is a struggle. Every wing beat is learning to make these two appendages work. Each movement is getting accustomed to a totally different shape.

If I was really ambitious, I’d write this as a children’s story … or maybe an adult story. Hmmm … a story for older people, that’d be interesting.

Oh, this is funny – I have one children’s book written but need illustrations. Now I have one done with photos and need a written story … kind of along the line of “The Ugly Duckling” with the transformation into older wisdom/crone-hood.

Our early years are spent learning what others try to teach us … fitting into society.

As we get older, we come into our wisdom and find our own ways … We learn to fly for ourselves.

I don’t quite have my finger on the story.

Today’s challenge is having so many creative ideas. My brain is on fire and the flames are roaring after being unambitious the past few weeks or more. I guess the Muse is trying to see if I can stay focused. So many ideas are flowing! I want to finish the photos from the past few days first. I never got back to the last batch.

Perhaps this is a lesson about focus. I too easily bounce from one project to the next making it longer to get anything fully completed. I’ve been in a dry spell and now I’m inundated once more with words and ideas.

576. Dear Divine Presence; Thank you for showing me (repeatedly until I “get it”) the need to focus on the project at hand. I waste time and energy letting my mind run wild with other projects or worrying about what I’m not getting accomplished. Better focus will help me get things done and maybe I wouldn’t have so many uncompleted projects.

And this coincides with me sometimes feeling like a butterfly going from flower to flower, never staying with one for long. Yes, I may come back to the same flower another time, but when I return to a project (like a painting) I didn’t finish, it takes some time getting back into the groove of where I left off.

Hmmm, as for learning to fly? I’ve gone through many transformations (or rites of passage) as I’ve grown older. I’ve fallen to the ground, stood back up. I’ve spread wings, gotten them clipped. Grew bigger ones, different ones.

Now I am transforming again …

Oh, I almost wish I could have a recorder tied to my head, so all these ideas that flood through me I could talk about as I’m doing something else. I can’t stop to write everything down. I break the chain of word flow and I lose it. Maybe I should think of getting something like Alexa … no, the thought of being “spied” on by a machine sends shudders through me.

Dammed Waters and Cold Embers

Note: Creativity, for me, is often the roaring of a flash flood or a raging firestorm. The feelings intermingle as I can feel I’m drowning in words or burning up with creative desire. Then there are times …

I’m not very motivated or inspired lately. Usually, words flow like water over a dam after a storm, but lately the water is low and there hasn’t been any fresh rain. The creative bursts of gushing words dried up. The word flow which stimulates other creative endeavors is nonexistent. I’m empty and I’ve no energy to breathe a spark to the embers.

I finished reading the last issue of Pastel Journal, and though I picked up a couple of tips, I’m still not inspired to go in the studio. It’s almost as if the last painting, which I have to admit I hate, dumped water on my creative fire putting out the flames, and the wet ashes left a burnt taste in my mouth I can’t get away from.

I keep telling myself it will come back. And it has, a bit – it’s in the proof as I’m sitting here writing this. Still, it’s a struggle and usually writing isn’t a struggle. When was the last time I wrote a poem? Months ago.

There was a bit of a spark over a week ago when I felt drawn to get back to the book I haven’t finished. But that fizzled out. There was a brief flash when I tackled a new garden project a couple days later. But those embers cooled quickly. I blogged five days in a row. But that fizzled when the words ceased, and nothing inspired me. I stood at the easel and worked more on the sky. But any more painting desire dried up like the excess pastel dust I blew off the paper.

I blamed the changing season. I told myself I needed rest and more time to heal from the fall I took in August. I used the excuse of having to put the gardens to bed and cleaning up the yard. I even allowed myself more time to sit and play Spider Solitaire telling myself, “I’ll work tomorrow.”

But the creative fire didn’t burn the next day or the day after that. I’ve made to-do lists. I’ve jotted down ideas for next spring’s gardening. But something feels missing. Where are my muses? I feel I’m in limbo. I’m in waiting mode – but for what?

I used to be able to see water gushing in the brook as I looked out from my seat. Now I have to go outside to see the trickling water. Maybe, like the brook, I just need to be patient and peaceful. Yes, for now the waters are slow trickles and the embers are cold, but it’ll all come back. Hey, maybe the muses need to rest, too. Maybe this is their dormant stage.

September 19

No frost here. I had gone out at 9:30 last night and took the plants off railings just in case. ("NH Chronicle" is the last show I watch every night to catch the weather and they were predicting possible frost.) The thermometer is just now reaching 40 degrees at 8 a.m. The inside thermometer still reads 61 degrees as it did when I got up. It never ceases to amaze me that 60 degrees outside is nice, but inside is downright cold.

I sit here wearing a turtleneck, flannel shirt, sweater, and a coat. I have fingerless furry hand coverings ... my fingers are freezing, but I need to be able to type. This morning I have TWO blankets over my lap. I'd turn on the furnace, but as it's supposed to be in the 80s over the weekend, I'm holding out.

The hardest part is because I don't have much of a lap, it's hard to anchor the blankets around me and they keep slipping off my legs. I quickly get chilled.

Yesterday was quite the busy day. I finally got Andy to cut 2 feet off the top of the extra stockade fence. He staked it behind the 4-by-4-inch posts he used to create a retaining wall to level the area I'm calling the stump garden because of the three big stumps. I got out the can of purple paint I'd used on the big stockade fence last year and set to work.

Standing in the depression behind the wall (that becomes a little pond during heavy rain), I reached over the top of the pickets to paint the 4-by-4s and the front of the fence. Immediately my back started screaming, but I pushed on. What a mess I made! I dripped paint all over and didn't care if I got dirt in the paint or paint on the ground. Next year when I plant more flowers here, the messy part won't be visible.

I added a second coat in places. My poor shirt -- good thing I'd put on a shirt I'd gotten paint on before. In the end, it looked really good. Even Andy said so and he was hesitant when I suggested doing this. I'm pleased.

Now I'm wondering about cutting up the other extra section of stockade to use the pickets in other parts of the gardens ... like where tall plants grow and need support ... and add a splash of purple color ... I think it'll look good if I place pieces strategically.

Six hours since getting up, the inside temperature still hasn’t risen. The tension in my shoulders and neck have caused a headache. Every time I get up to move around, I drop the blankets, take off glove and mittens and quickly get cold again. I give up. I’m in my house and there’s no reason I have to be so cold. What am I trying to prove? I turned on the furnace at 11:15. Once it warms up a bit, I’ll turn it off.

September 18

The lantana and petunia on the back deck still have beautiful blossoms. The geranium on the railing has full leaves at the end of its leggy stems ... reminds me of a poodle with her furry lower legs, shaved upper legs, and furry body. 

It's a quiet morning. I heard the cardinal chip before it got light, but I haven't heard a bird since. The sun hasn't put in an appearance. There's some lightness to the upper tree canopy, but closer to the house, the greens are dark. It's still very green until the brook where the rocks are a grayish brown with last year’s dead leaves stuck in crevices.

I did a morning yard walkabout and took some photos of a few flowers still blooming. It’s chilly. My hands are cold. I put up bird feeders and the nuthatches and gold finches have been back and forth.

Regarding work on the book: The pages I printed out yesterday have to do with if I am sending the manuscript to an editor, which isn't the same as having the book print ready. Another decision to make. Do I want to have an editor go over it? Is the real question, "Do I want to PAY someone to edit it?"

It's hard to trust someone you don't know with your baby. However, even though I’m an editor, it’s not always good to edit your own work. It’s easy to miss errors. No matter how many times I re-read my pages, I always find something to change or tighten up.

Then going back to Eric Rhoads,' "Do I want to just be good enough or better than good enough?" Whether I print a few copies even if it's just for me, don't I deserve to be better than just good enough? And, shouldn't we always strive to do quality work?

There's a part of me that feels I've slipped in that aspect lately. I have to say, I've not been giving my projects 100%. Sometimes I'm telling myself why should I care so much when no one else cares about me and what I do. I know, that's not entirely true, but I feel that way sometimes.

I can't allow myself to think this way. It doesn't matter if anyone else cares. I have to care! This is my life and if I want to be happy, I have to care about what I do, and my work needs to be quality work. I don't want to settle for second best/less than. It doesn't matter if I live alone. It doesn't matter if I'm not rich. It doesn't matter that I'm not popular or physically beautiful or have tons of family and friends visiting. 

I matter! What I do matters to me, and I want to surround myself with quality and goodness and beauty and color!

And if I have to give myself a pep talk by telling someone else what I want -- well, whatever works.

Back to the book(s) ... Sometimes I need set guidelines and while there are rules to writing, in this day of self-publishing and all, there can be too many options. Do I do this, or do I do it that way? I get stuck in deciding. And right now, this hemming and hawing scares me and prevents me from moving forward and accomplishing the current books. How can I do new books if I don’t get the ones in process finished? 

I need to resolve this indecisiveness so I can live a more wholehearted life.