Good tidings of comfort (and joy)

Happy Christmas Eve from the beach. The husband, the man child and I decided to make the 1100 mile trek from Vermilion, Ohio to Cocoa Beach Florida for Christmas for the second year in a row. For them, it was merely a chance to catch some sunshine and play in the sand. For me, it was personal. I had an important visit to make.

Last year, the loss of my mother was very fresh. I spent more time in tears than enjoying the sunshine. I couldn’t bear to allow myself a peek of happiness. It just didn’t seem right. I got up before the sun every morning and sipped my coffee and watched the waves lap at the sand and wept.

I walked the beach and picked up seashells – but only the broken ones. I told myself that they were more interesting, but I think there was a part of me that believed at that moment that I didn’t deserve the perfect beautiful ones.

On our last morning at the beach, I found a spot just above the high tide line. I sat in the sand and imagined my mom beside me there, sitting in a low sand chair in her homemade red bathing dress with the white jacket with a beach blanket pulled up over her legs and her feet buried in the sand. I don’t think she was ever here at Cocoa Beach in her life, but I imagined her here in death – sitting in her chair and watching the waves, the gulls – the children with pails and shovels. Contented smile on her face. I went back at sunrise day after day and talked to her here on the the beach. I said all of the things that I couldn’t say in the last weeks of her illness when the very sight of me, for reasons I will never know, would make her angry. The angry old woman was gone, and Mom was back, sitting there beside me.

On our last morning, I had to say goodbye. I drew a heart in the sand and burned the location into my memory so that I could find it again, and there I set up her chair, in my mind, for the last time. She wanted the chair close enough to the water that the waves would wash over her feet sometimes. As I turned to walk back to our campsite, I saw her give me a little wave. “Go have fun,” she called. “I’ll be right here waiting. I’ll be just fine.” As I made my way up the stairs over the dunes, the hot tears spilled down my cheeks.

It’s been a year, today, since I left Mom’s memory there on the beach. I’ve pictured here there in the sun many times over the past year. The memory of that imaginary scene has given me great comfort. When it came time to plan this year’s vacation, I knew that I must return.

We arrived Saturday evening after dark. I woke up the following morning, planning to watch the sun came up, but I burrowed deeper into the covers instead. When I finally made it down to Mom’s spot later that morning, there was a family there, catching tiny crabs in the rocks. I didn’t talk to Mom. Instead I joined the hunt for tiny crabs, and then I walked along the beach and picked up the most beautiful sea shells I could find. Some were broken, but mostly they were intact – whole and beautiful – a far cry from my ‘haul” last year.

This morning I finally made it to the beach before the sun rose. It was magical. I ran 4 miles. I ran along the tide line. A wake surprised me and got my shoes soaking wet and I didn’t even care. I was having a wonderful time. I kept running in my squishy shoes, singing along to my music and telling every passerby “Good morning,” or “Merry Christmas.”

My favorite song came on my playlist and I danced a little. I made it back to “Mom’s spot.” I took a reed that I found in the rocks and drew a picture in the sand and took a photograph. I told myself that my year of grieving was over. I sat in “our” spot, ready to talk to Mom and tell her that I was okay and then, like the wave that had soaked my running shoes, a rogue wave of grief hit me. It was the knock you on your butt, throat-punch kind of grief that hits out of nowhere and it left me a little breathless for a moment. I sat on the big rock and just let the tears flow. I felt a tingling on my right hand, and I heard my mom tell me, “I told you I would be just fine.” I smiled through hot tears.

Just as the wave that soaked my running shoes receded back into the sea, the rogue wave of emotion slipped away. It ebbed and flowed as I sat there, listening to Mom. She told me, “I’m still Mary Christmas, and now Franny Claus is here too,” referencing nicknames that she and her sister, who just joined her in Heaven last month used during the holidays.

I know that Mom’s not on the beach in her chair anymore. This next year I imagine that I will think of her trying to roller skate on streets of gold and fishing in a beautiful lake in Heaven’s version of the Swiss Alps that she always wanted to visit and never had the chance.

I made my way back to the campground where husband and man child were waking up. Husband saw me and asked if I was okay. The answer was “I’m fine. I’m happy sad.” He knew what I meant.”

When I drew “Joy” in the sand, I set an intention to live more joyfully. I had no way to know that seconds later I would be weeping. I read somewhere that grief is a gift. In order to grieve, we must first have loved. Oh, how I loved.

Although I’ve cried intermittently since that episode this morning, my heart is not sad. I’m smiling through the tears. I got the distinct feeling that when I go back to the beach tomorrow, it’s going to be just me and the seagulls and the other “morning people.” I don’t have to drive 1100 miles next Christmas to talk to my mom.

To my friends who are hurting this Christmas, “you are not alone.” Honor your loved ones in the way that gives you the most comfort. There’s no right way to grieve or wrong way to grieve. Grief has no timeline.

I’m still intending to live the next year joyfully. Joy and grief can co-exist. They play together quite nicely. I still love Christmas at the beach. Maybe by next year, I’ll learn to do a cartwheel in the sand.

12/5/2018 – A Christmas Card from Home by Way of Heaven

Posted by BecomingBetty

This morning began with a series of text messages. Texting is not my preferred mode of communication, and I don’t use it often, so when a series of “dings” occurred in rapid succession, it was a sure sign that something was amiss. Indeed, My Aunt Fran went to heaven this morning.

I sent a short message of condolence to my cousin and read the same from other cousins as they came across my screen. I brewed a cup of coffee and sat in the quiet living room, not quite sure how to feel.

I grew up with many loving aunts and uncles, but Aunt Fran was a favorite. She taught Sunday School and Children’s Church. She had a room in her basement full of little toys that she would give out as rewards for good behavior. For many years, she regularly cut my hair while I sat on a chair in her basement and she even allowed us to roller skate on the concrete floor. Sometimes Fran would “kidnap” me for a day. Friendly’s Ice Cream Parlor was a short walk from her home, and we would go together and she would buy me a sundae that was so big that I couldn’t finish it. Aunt Fran bought me my very first tea set, long gone now, but I remember it well.

Aunt Fran was a talented story teller. Whether the story was from the Bible or from her youth, Fran had a rare talent for making even the ordinary exciting. I particularly remember her re-telling of the story of David and Goliath. She played each role, picking up smooth stones and putting them into a pouch for her imaginary slingshot, and then carefully fitting each one into the pouch to slay the giant. A day with Aunt Fran was magical.

Mom and Fran were constant companions during the years that they shared at the Apostolic Christian Rest Home in Mansfield. Each had her own small apartment just across the street the other. Fran couldn’t see, and Mom had a hard time walking. Mom was Fran’s eyes, and Fran was Mom’s legs. They were a good team. They complemented each other; they needed each other. Even when Mom’s illness had progressed to the point where she could no longer truly care for herself, she wouldn’t leave Fran.

When cooking a big meal became too much for Mom several years ago, I began cooking Christmas dinner and transporting it to Mansfield, where we would serve up a feast in Mom’s small apartment. We always invited Aunt Fran, and she always came down the hall, usually bearing gifts, which were often treasures from her own apartment that she no longer used for herself. I use one such gift – a cast iron skillet – daily, and the lamp made of pink Himalayan salt glows in my study.

In the final year or so that Mom and Fran spent together, Fran’s hearing was failing, and her mind wasn’t working as before. Last Fall, I was staying a few days with Mom prior to bringing her home with me because Mom had grown too weak to get herself in and out of bed. She became very sick the night before we were to leave for my home, and I had to call an ambulance. I called Fran’s apartment, too, but there was no answer. Although I asked other family to let Fran know what had happened, she was convinced that I had stolen Mom away in the middle of the night without even letting them say goodbye. No amount of persuasion by myself or others involved could ever convince Fran that I had, in fact, wanted her to know what was happening and even had tried to reach her. As far as I know, Fran never forgave me. I had never known Fran to be angry, but angry she was. That night, I not only knew I was going to lose Mom, I lost my Franny, too.

Forgiveness is a lesson that took me more than 50 years to understand. I’m doing much better with it, but I still struggle with forgiveness regularly. It’s easier to understand it than to master it.

I struggle often to let go of the hurt that I cause myself with other people’s words and deeds so that I can just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they apologize or even feel bad for their “wrongdoing.”

I struggle to forgive myself for the times that I fail – whether it’s the dumb thing I did in second grade, or one of the times that I failed so completely that people I love won’t forgive me even though I’ve apologized. I struggle to let go of that pain, too, and just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they return that love or even acknowledge my existence.

When I am having those particular struggles -the ones where I struggle to forgive myself – I slip into a mindset where nothing I do is good enough. I don’t write because “who else would ever want to see it.” I don’t post pictures of my knitting or of my teacups because “people will just think I’m looking for attention.” I don’t play the piano because I’m rusty and I make a lot of mistakes, and I struggle to get on the treadmill because I’m slower than I was in 2016. Forgiveness is the key to happiness, if you ask me, because letting go of pain frees up so much energy to just enjoy life and to just enjoy living.

This morning I forgave Fran for being angry with me, and I forgave myself for not foreseeing that my failure to reach her myself would cause hurt so deep that it would destroy a 50-year bond. I allowed myself to weep, and to imagine Fran and Mom, reunited. I believe that Fran, moments after her death, was restored to perfect health with perfect hearing and a sharp mind, and that she understood perfectly when Mom told her that I had, in fact, tried to phone her.

I made it to the office this morning a little late, but pretty much on time. All day, my memories have kept spilling out my eyes and down my cheeks. I’m not one given to loud crying generally, but my eyes have grown very leaky since I reached “a particular age.” It’s one of many reasons why I don’t bother with makeup.

When I arrived at the office, my mail was piled on my desk. On the top of the pile was an envelope with a handwritten address. A bright red cardinal appeared on the postage stamp in the upper right corner – a lone pop of color on a black and white document. It’s said that the sighting of a cardinal is a message from a loved one in Heaven. I saw a post to that effect on Facebook yesterday, so it must be true!

I looked at the return address and saw Dalton, Ohio 44618. Home! No matter how long I am in Vermilion, which I love, my heart screams “home” when I think of Wayne County. In the envelope was a beautiful letter from a beautiful lady who has always been special. We haven’t seen or talked in more than 30 years, but today, just when I needed a lift, her letter landed on my desk on a morning when I was down, not only because my aunt died, but because the stubborn needle on the scale just won’t budge no matter how strictly I diet or how many miles I run right now.

She shared some of her memories of my parents which I had forgotten about, but which flooded back. She told me how much she’s enjoyed reading the little blog posts that I share. She talked about my writing about struggles and transparency and told me that I make a difference. She put a smile on my face.

I keep coming back to that cardinal on the stamp, and the idea of a message from a loved one in Heaven. The letter left Dalton, Ohio, a mere 50 or so miles away, on November 28^th and arrived here on December 4, a day when I wasn’t in the office. I didn’t personally receive the letter until I got to my desk on December 5- six days after the letter left “home.”. The pony express would have been faster! That dear lady closed her letter with “God’s grace and blessing on [my] journey.” In God’s perfect time, a letter landed on my desk at least 4 days late, carrying with it a message of love and hope and friendship. I feel like it also carried with it a message of forgiveness from Fran, and perhaps a “hi, I miss you,” from Mom, stuck to the letter with the glue on the cardinal stamp.

My friend from back home had no idea what I would be struggling with on THIS day on the day that she mailed the pretty Christmas card with the beautiful letter inside. She simply listened to the call she felt to reconnect. In doing so, she made a difference. In this day of instant messages and texts and emails, it is such a thrill to open a card or letter and read a message meant just for *ME*. Had she emailed, instead, I never would have received the message with the red cardinal at just the moment that I needed it.

It is possible to smile through tears. I know, because I’m doing it right now.

Love,

Embracing the Dark

Posted by BecomingBetty

My “brand,” for want of a better term, has been “comfort and joy,” but the truth is that I have been doing my best to load heavy on the “joy” part. I find joy in colors – in wild, bright, nearly-neon shades of pink, orange and green. I have teacups in every color of the rainbow. I wear eyeglasses that are splashed with many colors. I love color.

I’m currently listening to “Learning to walk in the Dark: Because Sometimes God Shows up at Night“, by Barbara Brown Taylor. The author’s soothing voice is a reminder that life isn’t always colorful. We have spent generations filling our world with light – chasing away the darkness. We’ve lost the ability to take comfort in dark things – dark places. Her voice came at me through several podcasts in a short time. On an impulse, I turned in an Audible credit and downloaded the recording. I’m so glad that I did.

I’m the first one up in the house most mornings. I flip on every light switch I pass, filling the house with the artificial sunlight emitted from all of those high-efficiency LED light bulbs. The author asked questions, and I pondered, “When was the last time that I truly sat in the dark? When did I last watch the night sky and watch for the stars to appear?”

It seems that August and September each lasted about 10 minutes. Here I sit, already part way through the month of October. My beautiful summer garden has begun to turn brown around the edges. The petunias are bearing their last blooms; the herbs are going to seed. Winter is Coming (sorry). With Winter comes long nights. With my windowless office, it is far too easy to arrive at work in the dark and leave in the dark. I must be intentional, some days, to glimpse the sunlight at all. The vibrant orange roses I purchased a week and a half ago have finally turned brown. I rinsed the apple-green vase and stored it away.

Emotions can be dark, too. We can confront dark emotions without being consumed by them. I’m amazed by the videos of dangerous creatures – night creatures – like wolves and bears and foxes that make their way into backyards and play in the pool or on the trampoline. I find delight in watching their apparent joy. Had those homeowners been frightened by the beasts and turned on the security light, flooding the yard with artificial sun, the animals may have scurried away into the forest. Instead, they sat back and allowed something magical to happen, and those videos have brought happiness to thousands, like me, who will never experience the sight.

In the wake of my mother’s death last year, I pursued joy like a drug. I purchased yarn in bright colors, hoarded away in quantities it will take many months to deplete. I asked for (and received – thank you, darling) a room painted a yellow (called “joyful,” no less) in which I could sit and do happy things while looking out the window at happy colors. Honestly, the room hasn’t received much use.

No, I’m not currently depressed. I’m just coming down off of an artificial high. I’ve never used recreational drugs, but I’m told that some so completely deplete serotin – the happiness hormone – that it’s difficult to feel happy after coming down from the high. Those same substances, administered by a professional, can be used to combat serious issues like PTSD. Like those drugs, “Joy,” I think, is best in small doses. It’s much more special that way. Seeking out joy is hard work. An item is only novel a time or two, then unless it is connected to a special memory, it begins to lose its magic. It becomes another pretty thing to sit on a shelf and dust.

Instead of running from garden to lake seeking perfect sunrises and sunsets (filled with fuschia and orange), I’m going to take a look around at all of the perfect,ordinary, taken-for-granted blessings. There is beauty in ritual – in the mundane.

I’m not swearing off of joy – I’m just trying to find a rhythm – to get back to appreciating the ordinary. To enjoy comfort while at the same time allowing darkness – sadness, melancholy and longing – to creep in where I can watch them from a safe distance.

My dear aunt and uncle in Arkansas recently sent me a gift – a video of my mother and her siblings in 2009. One sister had already taken up residence in heaven – but the rest of them sat and told stories about growing up – about Christmas and toys and the poor family who stole milk from the cows because their children were hungry.

That DVD sat on the table in the foyer for more than a week. I was afraid of it. I don’t know if I was afraid of seeing my mother’s face and hearing her voice. I don’t know if I was afraid that she might say something about me and my failures as a daughter. I can’t truly describe the nature of my fear. I just know that I felt it.

After moving the disc from one room to another, I finally popped it into the computer, sat back with a pot of tea, and watched it end to end. I allowed the tears to come. I allowed the grief to come into the yard and bounce on the trampoline. I allowed myself to laugh at the funny parts, too.

Like the wild animals playing on the swingset, though, dark emotion is a wild creature that for those of us who have found our way back from depression must be respected for the wild thing that it is. Like the woman filming the black bears, I can watch sadness from the safety of the kitchen window, but it would be foolish to invite it into the house and give it a place at the table.

I would never go out into the yard if a bear was there, but I might brave the night to see how close I could get to a fox or a raccoon. I would face fear of the dark for the potential experience of seeing something special up close.

If you never go out into the dark, how will you ever see the stars?

Who are You Going to Listen To?

Posted by BecomingBetty

Here’s a quick recap for those of you who don’t really know me or have lost touch. I got hurt badly in a fall just before law school. Already significantly overweight before law school, the injury, horrible diet (can you say free pizza?) and hours and hours of studying coupled with a completely sedentary lifestyle added up to a middle-aged woman who was not just morbidly obese – I was “super obese.”

Some years later, through changes in diet, DDP Yoga (check it out – it’s amazing) and putting on a pair of running shoes for the first time in my life, I lost over 100 pounds.

My Facebook feed was full of photos of the meals I prepared and notifications from Nike Running Club that I was going for a run. When people “liked” my post, the app would cheer. It was really motivating! I attempted a half marathon in 2015 and was “swept” at mile 8 (I couldn’t maintain the minimum pace). I didn’t give up. I was training for a “rematch” with the same half marathon course when I read a Facebook post written by a law school classmate who I considered a close friend.

I don’t remember the exact words, but the gist of the post was that people who aren’t serious athletes shouldn’t post about their workouts – that we just are attention seekers and our “friends” don’t really care about our workouts. Especially guilty were those of us who enter a competition and fail to complete it. I was devastated. He didn’t write my name, but I was all of those things. I did manage to finish the 2016 half marathon attempt (just barely), but afterward, I lost my mojo. I would run a few times a month, but I never got back into a predictable schedule.

I stopped posting, so I lost the “cheers.” I stopped running, so I lost the endorphins that exercise releases. I started eating potato chips again. Life took some really tough turns, and instead of going for a run to ease the anxiety, I turned back to food. Over time, I packed on nearly 50 pounds of weight.

As a self-employed person, my health insurance premiums became really expensive. I switched from traditional health insurance to a health share plan, and in order to be approved, I had to agree to work with a health coach. He doesn’t tell me what to do. He helps me to set goals, and when we check in every week or so, he asks me how I did. With his help, I’ve dropped 30 pounds.

I’ve missed running. I’m very slow, so running any distance requires a significant time commitment for me. My “homework” from my coach a couple of months ago was to sign up for a race. I signed up for the Cleveland Rite-Aid Marathon Weekend 5K / 10K Challenge which was held this weekend (May 19-20, 2018). The “overachiever” in me couldn’t just sign up for the 5K. I had earned 3 medals in 2016 for completing a challenge, so registered for both the 5K and 10K and I set out to repeat that feat.

Here in Ohio, the weather has been miserable. To top it off, my left foot has decided to grow some benign, but uncomfortable “lumps.” These two factors combined to make a very serviceable excuse to skip training runs. I skipped lots of them. Basically, I didn’t train – I just ran a couple of times when the weather was nice.

I checked the weather forecast mid-week. Saturday and Sunday were supposed to be stormy. I ran the 5K / 10K in 2016 when Cleveland had sleet, hail and thundersnow (yes, that’s a real thing) in mid-May. I nearly didn’t pick up my race packet.

By Friday morning, the forecast had improved. The forecast showed clear windows for both races. I posted about not being ready and about my food hurting, and a running friend (an ultramarathoner, no less) encouraged me to join the ranks of the injured and undertrained and do it anyway – so I did.

Saturday was the 5K. I did really well. I ran the fastest 5K I’ve run since I started running again. I was stoked. Sunday, I arrived at the start and it started raining. I very nearly turned back, got on the train and made my way back to my car. The voice of my “friend” was back in my head. I was going to finish near the very back of the pack. I hadn’t made it to anywhere near 6 miles in my training runs, and to be honest, other than yesterday’s 5K, I had only run once or twice in the past month.

I was just about to allow my “friend’s” imaginary voice that was telling me that I did not belong on the course to persuade me to return to the car when another law school classmate saw me and talked to me for quite some time. He was running his first race. That brief conversation gave me a minute to chase the other classmate out of my head.

I was sore from the 5K. I held back the first half of the race because I knew that I was under-trained and I was virtually certain to run out of steam. I was fine until about mile 4.5 when we had to climb a really steep hill. I was really tired. I wasn’t in pain, but it was hard to make my feet go faster than a slow walk. My pace had dropped, and that guy’s voice in my head was working on me again – “You didn’t train for this. Nobody cares about your posts. Nobody cares about your run. You’re a fake!”

I was discouraged. I felt like crying when a voice cried, “Betty!” Yet another law school classmate stopped in the middle of her own race to grab me and wrap me in a hug. Take that, “mean guy.” People do care.

The last mile and a half was slow, but I didn’t care. I was soaked to the skin (the rain never did completely stop) and out of energy, but I had a grin on my face that nobody could erase. I crossed the bridge over the Cuyahoga River that was just before the finisher’s chute. I collected my medal. I found my way to the tent where I received another medal for the completing two races in one weekend, and ran into yet another law school classmate. She cared, too.

This is a long, long story. The moral of the story is be careful who you allow as a “tenant” in your head. Nearly every time I post on social media about a run or a race, I receive a whole bunch of “likes,” which I translate as a positive thing. Maybe it *is* attention seeking, but if that little reward keeps me on the track or trail, I think it’s worth it. Anyone who is not interested has the power to block, unfollow or simply “mute” me on social media.

I allowed one post by someone who was probably going through his own issues YEARS ago to be an excuse not to do things that are good for me. Even sadder, that same guy wrote a post a couple of months ago apologizing to his social media friends for basically being a jerk a couple of years ago. Months later, I was still allowing his years-old post to be my excuse for not trying.

I ran more than 9.3 miles this weekend, most of them in a cold, miserable rain. I didn’t use an app that “cheered” me, but I received live, in person love from people I haven’t seen in person in years. I collected 3 medals to hang from the cane that I used to need to hobble around my law school. Most importantly, I’ve issued an eviction notice to the imaginary “friend” in my head because I don’t want to renew his lease. It’s time for him to go.

The announcer at the race said that 15,000 people were registered for today’s events. The fact that I found three people I knew, some at just the right moment to keep me from “throwing in the towel,” and one to share my joy in having finished went beyond coincidence. I believe in miracles, friendship and a bit ‘o luck. Today I experienced all three.

To all of the people who have told me that I am an inspiration and the reason they started doing something hard – whether it was going back to school or exercising – even running: I’m back. Being told that you’re an inspiration can be uncomfortable. I wonder why people say that sometimes because I am so imperfect. Perhaps it is that very imperfection that inspires. I get back up time and time again. It’s okay to stumble. It’s okay to lose your way from time to time. Finding your way back to the path is what matters. Thank you for believing in me when I stopped believing in myself.

To the friend who accidentally found his way into my head: I didn’t write this to call you out. It looks like your life today is going in a fantastic direction. I miss you and I’m proud of you….I just don’t want you in my head anymore. Okay?

The moral of the story is: when you have to choose between listening to people who love you and want you to succeed and people who are going through a hard time and complaining about something they don’t like on social media, choose wisely!

Peace out, I’m going to go hang up my medals!

~Be~

My Secret Weapon

Posted by BecomingBetty

This morning as I was preparing for a contested court hearing, I couldn’t help but miss my mom. Mom was my “secret weapon.” She was proud when I became a lawyer. She always asked about my work. I didn’t give her much detail, but I told her about the kinds of cases I was working on. “I represent a mom in a nasty divorce,” or “I’m a guardian ad litem for 3 kids who love both of their parents.” Sometimes it was “I have a bankruptcy hearing and my client is really scared,” or even, “the attorney on the other side yells a lot and it makes me anxious.” Mom never asked for more details. She just said, “that sounds like hard work, but it’s important and I know you’re making a difference.”

The night before my very first contested hearing, I called Mom and told her that I was nervous. I didn’t really know what was going to happen. I was afraid of looking unprepared and making a fool out of myself as well as doing a bad job for my client.

Mom asked me what time my hearing was. She told me she was going to pray that my hearing would go smoothly. My hearing didn’t go perfectly, but it did go smoothly. I didn’t feel anxious or nervous. I asked the right questions. All-in-all it was a great success. My client ended up with a good result, and I gained confidence.

I called mom that night to tell her that the hearing had gone well. She answered, “I knew it would. I prayed.” We have had many of those “night before a hearing” conversations over the past seven years. She said a lot of prayers for people she didn’t know, and I had a lot of hearings that went smoothly, where I didn’t feel nervous and didn’t make a complete fool of myself.

I’m not claiming to have had divine intervention in my cases – but I can’t recall ever having a hearing go badly when my mom was praying. Mom’s prayers were my “secret weapon.” Mom believed in me, and knowing that she believed that I was “making a difference” gave me confidence. I want to be the kind of lawyer that my mom believed I am. Sometimes prayer changes things from the inside.

Day 8 – Sometimes You Just Have to Feel It

Posted by BecomingBetty

Sometimes the lesson is simply indescribable. You just have to feel it. Any attempt to find the words to describe those profound, deeply-felt changes will pale in contrast to the realization.

This is as close as I can come: The depth of the feeling of being very sad about a change – like death – is in direct proportion to how hard we resist the change. As long as I dwell in the past, wishing things could have gone differently or that I had said something or did something else, I will continue to feel sadness.

When I accept that Mom is gone, and that it happened just the way that it was always going to happen, the sadness eases. It’s out of my control. It always was.

The words make it sound much simpler than the feelings do. You’ll have to trust me on that one.

Day 1 in the life of a motherless mother. Seek Beauty.

Posted by BecomingBetty

We buried my mother yesterday. She died on a Friday and we buried her on the following Monday. There was no real time for grief between death and burial. As the oldest child – the only child living in the U.S. – the responsibility to make arrangements fell squarely on my shoulders.

There was shopping for suitable clothing for burial to be done, clergy to be found, scriptures to be selected. Although Mom had “pre-planned” the service, there was still a 2 hour appointment at the funeral home.

there were phone calls to be made and announcements to be written. Worst of all were the fires that needed to be put out and the ruffled feathers that needed to be soothed.

Death brings out the worst in some of us.

I spent Sunday night doing difficult work – consciously working through anger and resentments and letting them go. I learned that forgiveness TRULY is for the forgiver and not for the perceived transgressor. I entered the funeral home on Monday with only love and sadness in my heart.

I didn’t arrange a meal, but my cousin surprised us all with a trip to Denny’s, where we enjoyed fellowship and more than a laugh or two.

Today, though, it is my first day back to “normal” without my mom. Tuesday is always my “day off.” That doesn’t stop me from fielding a handful of phone calls and responding to emails, and today is no exception.

As with most days, I had a to-do-list. Mine was pretty simple: run, cry and get a massage. I managed two out of three. I decided that calling to make a massage appointment would take too many spoons, so I let myself off the hook on that one.

Grief is a funny thing. I can be laughing one moment and then something that Mom would say or do hits me in the gut. Something will happen and I think, “I should call Mom.” I think of all of the days when I forgot to call her, or when I was tired and thought to myself, “I’ll call in the morning.”

I remind myself that forgiving myself is possibly more important than forgiving others.

I ticked “cry” off of my list early and often. “Run” was harder. I donned my cold-weather running gear quite early in the day, but I found other tasks to put off the run. I revised my monthly Amazon subscriptions (twice), I rearranged some flowers that I brought home from the funeral. I made tea, ate a snack and played with the dogs.

finally, I kicked myself out the door. I wore a heavy fleece jacket over my long-sleeved technical shirt and a baby-alpaca cap on my head. I drove to the park where my favorite trail “lives” and I checked Facebook and Instagram for “likes” while willing myself to get out of the car and run.

I took a deep breath and opened the car door. I shed the cap and the sweater, knowing I would be too warm after a mile or so. I queued up my playlist and started my GPS watch. I think I made it 200 or 300 yards before the cold wind cut through and chilled me to the bone. Teeth chattering, I turned tail to call it quits. On the (short) trip back to the car a small voice spoke. “You have a jacket and a cap. Use them.” I did just that.

I paused the GPS and I pulled on the warmer clothing. Returning to the trail, I set off at a slow, steady pace. I paid attention to my breath and to the path. Fallen leaves covered hidden roots and rocks. Running safely became an exercise in being present. I did look around me and saw the brilliant hues of autumn. As I emerged from the first loop to the second (of three), I saw bluest skies in the clearing. As I ran through the meadow I skipped over puddles from the previous days’ downpours.

I stopped time and again to take photos to attempt to capture the moments of sheer awe at the world I have the privilege to run through on my two feet. I exited the second loop to make my way to the third loop and found what is normally a trail to be a six-inch deep pond / stream. I decided “let’s not get crazy now,” and decided that multiple loops around the “middle” loop would do.

I looped the “middle” loop three times, all in the same direction. Each trip round the loop I discovered something I hadn’t noticed before. On the first trip it was the view of the fields and trees across the clearing. On the second trip it was the low-hanging branch that I could reach up and touch. On the third trip, it was the prints of an unknown creature in the mud beside my own footprint.

Although I did, indeed, become quite warm in my cap and jacket, I made it 3.5 miles. I got to check “run” off of my mental list. As I guided my car through the twists and the turns of the parking lot to return home, I saw a brilliant crimson tree with the sunlight shining through its leaves. It was so beautiful that it took my breath away. I stopped the car to snap a photo which, of course, didn’t do it justice.

I returned home and inhaled the heady fragrance of a yellow rose the size of a peach. I sought out color and fragrance and sound that gave me glimpses of joy, and that joy brought me comfort. #Comfortandjoy was the hashtag I adopted for an abandoned attempt at building a MLM empire. It’s become my new theme for living through grief.

Today’s lesson was evident – seek beauty. It is everywhere. Enjoy it with every breath. Seek out beauty and find joy. In them, find comfort.

They call it the present because today is a gift.

Special Delivery

Posted by BecomingBetty

When you begin listening for the voice of God in your life, he speaks in many ways. Sometimes, it is that “still, small voice” in my head during a meditation. Other times it is looking up to see a sunbeam playing across the floor bringing just a little light into a dark moment.

When I pay attention to “living, instead of existing,” God manifests. Perhaps you will say that these moments are simply coincidences. I choose to view them as the breadcrumbs left behind to show me that I am still on the right path.

God sent two messages to me last week via “special delivery.”

I adopted “comfort and joy” as a little personal theme, brand or motto a year or so ago. I post photos of teacups or flowers, bright colored yarn or even close-ups of my dogs. If it brings me comfort or joy, it’s a likely candidate for my instagram hashtag, #comfortandjoy.

I have an eye condition that makes it difficult to read sometimes. I do as much of my reading on a screen as I can because I can tweak the contrast and the font size to make it easier to see. As a result, I rarely look at “real” books anywhere anymore.

Last weekend I went on a little shopping expedition to two of my favorite thrift stores. At the first, where I have never even glanced at the used book rack, I was forced to stop a moment by the shelves because a couple of people were admiring objects in a curio and blocking my way. I turned to the bookshelves to pass the time, and my eyes lit immediately on a daily devotional about “Simple Abundance” with “Comfort and Joy” in the title. I picked it up and paid for it.

At the next stop, I was waiting for my son to try on some clothing. I had already checked out the dishware and found no teacups that called to me, so I walked to the book shelves. Just the day before, I had reviewed my Amazon “Wish List.” On it was Regina Brett’s book, “God Never Blinks.” I’ve enjoyed reading Regina’s newspaper columns for years. She has inspired me on many occasions. I “follow” her on Facebook, and although I frequently have considered buying her book, I just haven’t gotten around to it.

Just as at the previous shop, the first book that I saw “called out” to me. Its bright orange cover drew my eye, and into the cart it went.

Those books sat on my coffee table for several days, untouched. I opened the cover of “God Never Blinks” and saw an inscription from a daughter to her mother on Mother’s Day 2012. It made me a little sad to know that a carefully chosen gift had made its way to the Salvation Army store.

I turned the page, and saw that the author had autographed the book, and my amazement that this little book had found its way into my hands was magnified. I turned to the Introduction section, and as I read the words, I knew that I had discovered a soul sister. Tears streamed down my face.

I’ve been reading from these two books for a week now, with no hint of discomfort – no visual distortion. Now, I read a lesson each day. I want to keep turning the pages and consume the entire book in a single sitting, but it would be over too quickly. Instead, like a box of expensive chocolates, I will savor just one each day, letting the words sink in slowly.

God didn’t just send me a message. He sent me an autographed copy. Thank you for your words, Regina, and thank you to unnamed “favorite daughter” who bought her mom and autographed book in 2012 that would be delivered into the hands of another mother nearly 5 years later.

Day 6/365: Prayer and Meditation

Posted by BecomingBetty

I spend a period of time each day in prayer and in meditation. I set aside time each day for each of these practices. I am not a theologian or a guru. I have found, though, that prayer and meditation complement each other and add a great deal to my life.

I have heard it said that prayer is talking to God, and meditation is listening for the answers. That may be an oversimplification, but I like the sentiment.

The first thing I do in the morning, before I get out of bed, is to give thanks for another day of life. If my husband is in bed, I check if he is breathing and give thanks for that, too. I (silently) say “this is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it,” and then I wake up my 16-year-old son and round up the dogs.

I go to sleep at night (literally) counting my blessings and giving thanks for the many people and things that bring joy into my life. I don’t view God as a vending machine in the sky that doles out favors in exchange for prayer tokens. I don’t spend much prayer time asking for specific blessings. I do, however, seek answers. I ask for inspiration, and I receive it.

I attempt to spend 15 – 20 minutes each morning in meditation. I have some recordings that i like to use to get into a meditative state of mind. It seems my mind is always working on one question or another, and it is difficult to reach a place where I can just “be” instead of “doing.”

I have learned to keep a pad of paper and a pen handy when I meditate because ideas just pop into my mind. Without my mind planning projects or worrying about details, I am free to simply breathe in and out and listen for inspiration and answers – or just to relax and enjoy life.

There are many free meditation apps for iPhone and Android that are useful tools to help you learn to meditate. Although it’s cold in Ohio as I write (1 degrees F, brrrr), when the weather is warn, there is nothing that I enjoy more than sitting in nature with my eyes closed and just simply observing the sounds of nature and the sensations of the sun and the breeze as they touch my skin. In these moments I can truly disconnect from the wear and tear of life’s distractions and allow God to speak.

Perfect Sense(s)?

Posted by BecomingBetty

12983773_10154170302648223_4397169664801694898_o Over the past six months or so, my life has been enriched through the use of essential oils. I’ve read some of the science behind them, but to be honest I really don’t understand *how* they work. I just know that for me they *do* work. This post isn’t really about that, though.

I’ve been fighting a cold / sinus infection for a week. The essential oils have been helping me feel a little better than I usually do, but yesterday, something changed. I made a batch of essential oil-laced bath bombs to share. I opened my favorite essential oil – the one that I call happiness in a bottle – and took a whiff. Nothing. I held it up to the light to see if perhaps the bottle was empty. It was half full. I opened the next bottle and again, nothing.

Although I was feeling congested, I was still able to breathe in through my nose. I opened the cinnamon and the peppermint – odorless. I opened the peanut butter. Nothing.

Confused, I ran to consult “Doctor Google.” He said that anosmia (the absence of the sense of smell) has a number of causes, not the least of which is sinus infection and nasal congestion. I flushed my sinuses with my neti pot. Still nothing.

i lamented to my husband that the I wouldn’t be able to taste the dinner that I had planned. Graciously, he suggested that I save my labor for another day and offered to feed himself and the “boys.” I ate my flavorless baked potato and a salad. If not for the varied textures, I’m not sure that I would have been able to differentiate between them.

Back to Dr. Google, I wondered if perhaps my neti pot could damage my sense of smell. I came upon a discussion thread filled with individuals who had been living without their sense of small (and sense of taste) for long period of time. One professional chef related how she had battled depression. Life just wasn’t as vibrant without tasting and smelling.

I thought back to my essential oils. After battling anxiety for years, I’ve found something that really helps me. My emotional aromatherapy is something that I not only enjoy – it helps me feel and think “better.” If this anosmia were to persist, how would I go back to “before?”

I ate some flavorless popcorn as I watched television with my husband. At the suggestion of a friend, I stuck some basil essential oil up my nose. It cleared my sinuses, but I couldn’t smell it. I gave a longing look at the essential oil diffuser in the bedroom and debated as to whether or not I should turn it on. Would it help me drift off to sleep ifI couldn’t smell it?

I woke up this morning and still couldn’t smell a thing. I couldn’t “wake up and smell the coffee.” I started feeling pretty sorry for myself, to tell the truth.

If I had to give up a sense, which would it be? I couldn’t imagine not seeing a sunrise or hearing music. Without touch, how would I avoid injury? Before this experience, I suppose I might have said “smell,” but I find myself rethinking that position. Taste protects us from consuming spoiled foods and makes life richer. Smell and taste go together, I have discovered.

We depend upon our sense of smell to warn us of danger – fire, smoke, spoiled food. what a marvelous creation the human body is. These five senses work so perfectly together to keep us safe – to enrich or lives.

As I pondered the senses, I doused the tiny ants that had made their way into my kitchen with a spray of white vinegar and peppermint essential oil. Suddenly, the acrid smell of vinegar penetrated my head and I smiled.

I ran to unmold the bath bombs and my head was filled with the odor of “joy” (yes, joy has a smell).

Today, I give thanks for a world filled with smells and tastes, touches and sights and sounds. It all makes perfect sense.

Just write what you know.

love,

~Be~