Learning to appreciate the gifts of what didn’t happen

I woke up at 3am to the sound of something crashing down. Not good, I thought. I got up and looked outside to see what might have happened. 

We are getting a lot of rain here in northern California right now, and the grounds are getting saturated. Trees come crashing down. 

My neighbor’s tree came down two weeks ago just touching my roof. Two small trees had caught the larger tree as it came down, saving my roof, my house, and maybe even me.

 All the neighbors came together, with kindness and support for each other.

I have been so very grateful.

 I have written before about dodging bullets, and the bullets coming ever faster and more frequently as we age. This falling tree was not the bullet with my name on it. Not yet.

So there I was this morning at 3am. It was raining pretty hard, it was dark, and I couldn’t really see what happened. I didn’t see any obvious damage to any property around me. Back to bed I went, deciding I wouldn’t really be able to see anything until the light of morning. After a bit, I was able to go back to sleep.

I woke up, got dressed, and got myself ready to face what might have happened. I looked in front of the house, where my neighbor’s tree had fallen weeks ago. All looked ok there.

 I made my way to the back of the house and the property there, property that is on a fairly steep hill.

There it was. A very tall, huge Monterey Pine had come down, across the hill, falling onto a small fence and another smaller tree on my property. It looked once again as if the smaller tree and the fence had cushioned the fall. These small trees are taking care of me lately. It brings me to tears. 

I looked a bit longer to see what I could see of all that had happened. I took a deep breath, came inside and sat down with another cup of coffee, continuing to breathe deeply. Feeling the moment. Feeling the shock, and the blessing of how this tree had come down without hurting anyone. Without hurting anything as far as I could tell. 

Maybe I will name this my Meditation On A Falling Tree.

I left a message for the arborist who had just over a week ago come out to prune several oak trees for me. Oak trees that I had been planning to get pruned this summer, but thought better of it since my neighbor’s tree that had fallen was an oak. Better to do this earlier,I had reasoned, to prevent any further possible catastrophes. 

I had also asked the arborist, when he had come to prune the oaks, about this particular pine tree that fell last night. He had responded that there may be a chance of some of the branches or the tree itself falling, but that it would not hit anything. Less to worry about. 

Continuing to breathe and calm myself, I sent another message to this arborist this morning. He will be coming out today to assess the situation, once the rain lets up enough. Ok, that’s taken care of for the moment.

I then look outside and see my neighbor’s sons working on something in the area where our properties meet. I walked up there, and lo and behold, a cedar tree that I just got an estimate for (also for pruning) had lost one of its significantly larger branches. I had just received the estimate yesterday for pruning this tree and had written back that I wanted to book them to do the work when they could fit me into their schedule. (The arborist who pruned my oaks did not have the equipment to handle this one particular large cedar, which needed one of those bucket trucks.) I was ready to schedule the work with this other company as soon as possible. 

Clearly this one branch could not wait. 

This huge branch had fallen in my neighbor’s driveway. It had lightly touched her car, but again, no damage was done. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. 

This lovely neighbor of mine (we fairly recently started having monthly happy hours together, now that we are both retired and have time to actually get to know each other more) and I both stood there, watching her sons saw the large branch into smaller pieces and clean things up. Shaking our heads, we talked about the importance of laughter (as in ending the year with a true bang.)

We are the same age, she having turned 70 this month and I following close behind her, turning 70 this coming April. Aging, we said to each other, reminds us to laugh when we can, and be grateful for gifts. And to remember to look for and see those gifts all around us. 

This incident could have been so much worse. No one was hurt. No damage was done. And sweet connections happened on New Year’s Eve day among us all. This may be the only face to face contact that I have today. Hugs were exchanged. What treasures these were. I felt cared about and cared for. I felt less alone. I felt the love of neighbors and friends. 

What gifts that these trees have given me this season. 

The gift of being saved from any injury, both myself and anyone else. The gift of no major damage having been done to anyone’s property. The gift of neighbors coming together in crisis to be there with each other. The gift of feeling less alone in the world. The gift of realizing that we have blessings each and every day if we look around us. 

Life can be hard. There is pain and suffering and loss. All part of the journey. And there is caring. There are small everyday miracles and there is community. 

Today, I am grateful for the gifts and blessings. For the miracles. For the hands reaching out to be there in support and comfort. For neighbors. For friends. For love, in all of its various wonderful forms. For life. In all of its bittersweetness. 

The crashing trees, the small trees that catch them and cushion the blows.

 The suffering that life can bring and the friends that catch us and cushion us from these blows of life. 

The grace that enables us to see another day. To live another precious day on this earth. 

Feeling connected, even in solitude

I spent much of this past holiday season alone, intentionally. A time to reflect, to go inside, to simply be and to be in gratitude.

To feel gratitude for my life. Especially since having had a couple of recent reminders of how fragile life can be, how quickly it can all change the blink of an eye. These reminders are gifts. Gifts that help us to appreciate each precious moment that we still have, never knowing how many may be left.

A tree almost falling on my house, missing it by inches, because of two smaller trees catching and bearing the weight of the fallen tree and saving my roof, my house, maybe even me. I thank those trees every day. And I will do my best to save them and hope that they survive the damage that was done, the torn and split limbs. The trunks that still stand. 

Some medical tests are being run on me for possible asbestos exposure issues. Two of the tests done thus far came back negative. All ok so far. No guarantees, but so far so good. One breath at a time, I remind myself. 

Random other incidents and issues coming up in life, as they do. Dodging bullets until the one with my name comes for me.

 I am still here, still alive. Still here to write about it and tell the story.

And in this, my solitude, my quiet space of being, I realize that I am not really alone.

I visit the mausoleum where I remember the lives and gifts of my mother and father. I feel the spirits of all those there around me. I sit quietly with them, acknowledging their lives. Acknowledging the brevity of it all. Acknowledging what they may and may not have done, regrets, sadnesses, memories. Lives lived. Some stories told. Some not told because time ran out.

I go home and continue my quiet reverie. 

I hear from friends. 

A dear friend calls that I have not spoken to in decades. We have mailed cards or notes, or more recently a few texts, but not spoken to each other. Her voice sounds exactly as I remember it. It brings a smile. That memory was stored within me, the sound of her voice. 

I get another phone call from a friend that I used to work with. We may not have frequent contact, but when we do have contact, the depth and authenticity is there. It amazes me. And love is spoken with appreciation of each other still being in the world and having been part of each others’ lives.

 My neighbors, stop by for a few moments. We have all recently grown even closer together due to that fallen tree. We rallied around each other, supported each other, and became more of a family. 

 I get more holiday texts from other friends that I may not hear from often, but when I do hear from them, the connection is as kind and loving as ever. We remember our past connection, each other’s presence on this earth. We remember that our lives touched, making us forever connected. 

I get a phone call from an ex lover. The romantic relationship may be over, but the friendship continues. How lovely to be able to continue that thread and connection. The love may change forms, but remains there still. 

I am filled with so many emotions these days. So many feelings. Bitter and sweet, each important for their own value, message and lesson. The holidays can bring those up even more intensely. 

I feel very alone at times. I believe that there are certain things that we each must ultimately face alone. 

And yet, even in this aloneness, we are connected. We have touched each others’ lives and souls and somehow become part of each other. And especially during the holidays, I am grateful for this created family. This family is part of the thread of the story of my life. They are in me, in my memories, as I am in them. 

Connection doesn’t always need to be physical presence. It is felt deep within us. Even with those that have already left this earth.

That is my hope, as I continue on this journey of aging, that I have touched some lives and became part of those lives and spirits and stories. That I have been seen and heard. As I saw and heard them. That I mattered to some, made a difference in some lives, even if briefly. That my life was a spark, a light. A gift for others, as they have been to me. 

And so I sit here in sacred solitude combined with the grace of love, friendship and connection. 

And that is the best holiday gift of all. 

Its time to write to Santa again, after all these years

Dear Santa,

 It’s been many years since you heard from me, I know. I didn’t forget you. 

I got older, got absorbed by life and its duties, its chores, its ups and downs.

 I left you to the innocence and wonder of young children. I was an adult now, and had to do what that required. Or so I thought. 

I am older now. I don’t know where all those years went. They seemed to fly by. 

And, instead of getting into being more and more of an adult, I find I am now moving back more toward the ways of a child. Perhaps this is part of the gift of the wisdom of aging. 

I feel everything more deeply, see the wonder more of the world around me. I can be mesmerized by watching the birds bathe, watching the squirrels come to get the peanuts that I leave out for them.

I can stand in front of a huge elephant where I volunteer at the zoo, completely absorbed in that moment as he and I connect on levels that are far beyond words. I am in awe. I feel a depth of love and connection that I cannot name, but know and recognize. I lose all sense of time in that moment. I understand, for that brief moment, the concept of eternity. 

Sunsets can make me cry.

Towering redwoods become my cathedral. 

Just like the lists that I used to have, I have a wish list again at this stage of my life. This list, however, has different dreams on it now.

I want to believe in heros and heroines to come and save this world, this earth that is hurting, along with its creatures, plants, trees, oceans, air, and people. I want to believe that there is a hero in us all. Deep inside each of us. Ready to be called upon to come to the rescue. Rescuing ourselves. Rescuing others. 

I want all the adults to remember and feel the child that they once were inside them. The child who still believes in magic, the child who dreams, the child who wishes. The child who sometimes lashes out because of hurt, but is really needing to feel loved and cared about, to feel safe and held. 

I wish for us to wake up to what we are doing to each other. I wish for the wars and killings and pain inflicted on each other to stop.

I want people to have enough water to drink, enough food to eat. Enough shelter to keep warm and dry. Enough to feel safe. 

I want us to stop hurting animals. To recognize their right to life and existence and to understand that we share this earth and planet. That we all are connected to each other and need to take care of each other. 

I want us to take care of this precious earth and appreciate that this is our sacred home and needs our love and attention.

I want kindness to be finally recognized as the ultimate superpower of them all. And I want that our striving to be better be aimed toward that goal of more gentleness and compassion. Can you imagine an Olympic event for Kindness? A World Cup for Compassion? Why not?

I want for us to be able to accept our humanity and all of its mixed and sometimes tumultuous feelings. To see that this is all part of the human journey and experience. And to be able to hear that in each other and ourselves, rather than denying it, rather than trying to push all those feelings away and then ending up acting out from that place. 

I want us to understand and hear what people of all ages have to say. 

As an older woman now, I want the wisdom of elders to be heard and used toward the healing that it can help move us toward. I have things to share and teach, but I can’t share those if I am not seen or heard. You cannot see someone whom you have made invisible. You cannot hear someone whom you have muted. 

I want these artificial divisions that we have drawn to separate us to be seen for what they are. These divisions are a way to see someone as Other and then feel separate, different, and thus easier to attack. Be it age, gender, race, class, ethnicity, educational level, religion, political beliefs, and all the other ways that we use to try and define ourselves as different than others. Apart from others. Not seeing those others as reflections of parts of ourselves that we all can contain. 

As for me personally, I want more understanding and compassion toward myself, especially during this aging process. And I want us to be able to give that to each other. To watch the changes that aging brings and to be able to love myself during that process, scary as it sometimes can be. 

I want us to see the whole of each piece of us that is still inside. 

I still have the child, the young woman, the young adult, the middle age adult, all inside me. I want to validate and love all those parts of me as I continue my journey in this life toward the end of the path.

I am more than the image that you see when you take one look. I am complex. I need your time and attention to see all of me. And I want to do the same for you. 

I want joy, laughter (not at the expense of myself or others), peace, and the ability to feel what we feel, in all of its bittersweetness. Life is poignant. And it is a precious gift. 

So dear Santa, I know that this is a big list. I also know that it’s important to name and ask for what we want and need. It’s important to dream. It’s important to have visions of what can be, of what each of us can strive to be. Of what we might be together. I believe in you, Santa. Because I believe in us. 

Acknowledging our feelings to be able to move through them and beyond

This weekend was tough. 

I hesitate to even write about it, as it can be easy for me to invalidate my own experiences and feelings when I compare them to what others are suffering in this world. There is so much trauma and destruction and deep wounding in this world.

Who am I to talk about what seem like trivial experiences in comparison?

Who am I feel anything but gratitude?

That, I believe, is a trap that is easy to fall into. To compare our own issues or problems to the very real and major pain of others. And belittle ourselves for even daring to complain or speak about it with anything but gratitude for all that we have.

I am grateful. For life. For each day. Especially as, in continuing on this journey of aging, I become aware of the number of those days ahead of me dwindling. Mortality becomes more real. Priorities shift.

And yet, life happens to us all.

So this past weekend, a huge oak across the small private road from me fell and crashed down toward my house.

I was home at the time, heard the loud sound, and felt a bit of shaking in my house. That can’t be good, I said to myself. (Living alone affords me the luxury of having conversations with myself all the time.) 

I walked around the back of the house, and looked up at the slope behind me. This is where, years ago, two 125 foot tall Monterey pines had toppled down on top of each other during a heavy winter storm. I felt so grateful at that time that they had miraculously fallen down onto each other and then onto a fence between my house and my neighbor’s and not onto anyone or any house. No damage was done except to the fence. It was unbelievable to think of what could have happened in that middle of the night when all were sleeping in their homes , relaxed with the illusion of safety.

Remembering that night as I kept walking around, I saw that no trees looked like they had fallen on the slope. I dared to breathe a sigh of relief as I continued my path around the house. 

I came back in and opened the front door to see if there was anything that I could see from there. 

I could not walk out of the front door except for a few steps. There, lying at the entrance to my house was the huge oak tree that had fallen victim to the storm and muddy hill (after being dry from years of drought). And, as I looked around, I noticed that there were several live wires that had been taken down by the tree on its path to my front door. And I, for a few moments, simply stared at this tree. At what had happened. Trying to take it all in. 

I think it sometimes takes our brains a few seconds to let in something bad that has happened, to process the reality of the situation around us. 

I was able to connect with a neighbor up the hill. They had called 9–1–1. The fire department very quickly showed up, and stayed and stood guard to make sure that everyone stayed indoors until the power had been disconnected and the live wires would then be harmless. 

The power company ( PG & E in California) soon were there. PG & E , after shutting down the source of power, called in their tree crew, who showed up several hours later and proceeded to begin the process of removing this huge oak from our road. They kept working until the road was cleared, well into the night. 

Once the road was cleared, the PG & E crews who deal with the electricity came back to work on getting our power restored. Not an easy task, especially in the pouring rain. They did not stop until about 3am the next morning, until a new pole was installed, the lines were replaced, and the power was restored. 

I appreciate them so much for their nonstop tireless work to help us out. I am humbled by how hard people work. How much we depend on others. How vulnerable we all really are at any given moment in time.

We, the neighbors and I, are still recovering from this. Crews still come up from PG & E to look at the lines, at what may still need to be replaced or repaired. Cable companies, internet companies are frequently here, blocking access to the road as they do their work.

How fortunate to be able to live where the repairs can happen quickly, where the response time is as soon as it can be. Where we are paid attention to and cared for. Where there are systems in place to handle such emergencies. 

And now that I find myself dealing with the details of what the work to be done is that follows such an incident, I notice inside myself that I am feeling some trauma from the whole experience. To see this tree and how close it came to landing on my house. While I was in there. To realize that others might have been walking on that road at the time. 

There were two small trees that I loved that were in the front of my house. Trees that others had suggested that I have removed. I had refused. 

These two beloved trees were badly damaged from the huge oak that fell.

Those two trees, as the roofer (that I had requested to come out to inspect the roof) told me, are what saved my roof and my house from much worse damage. Cushioning the landing and falling of the huge tree. Catching its fallen limbs at the expense of their own.

I am so grateful to those trees. Indeed, I have scheduled an arborist to come out and see if they have any chance of being saved. I pray so.

We never know who or what may save us. 

My neighbor had parked his truck close to where the tree came down and the tree completely covered the truck. Amazingly, the truck came out with only a minor dent. Unbelievable. This neighbor, that day, had traveled to Las Vegas, where his father had just died. 

He is convinced that his father was watching out for him. I believe in things like that.

I have not left the house since this happened on Saturday. I need to go somewhere this evening. A holiday gathering. Although I am tempted to cancel, I think that I will go and give myself permission to leave early if it feels like too much for me to handle. 

It occurs to me that we need to validate the traumas in our lives. We all have traumas. And they are real. And we react on many levels to that trauma, in our bodies and our souls. Becoming perhaps hypervigilant. Anxious. More fearful. 

And becoming more aware. Of how we cannot take one moment for granted. That things can, and do, happen in the blink of an eye. Your life, as you know it, can change instantaneously. The outcome of this tree story could have been very different. And these stories can come in and enter our lives at any moment. 

I feel the shock of what happened. The shock of what might have happened. The reminder, once again, to cherish each moment. 

 I am reminded to treat myself gently these days. It’s ok to have been scared. It’s ok to get shaken up. It’s ok to feel the after effects of experiences like this. It’s ok to treat myself with compassion. It’s ok to take the time that I may need to fully re-enter my life. 

It’s ok.

It’s ok to allow myself to be human, to feel all that this involves, to validate my visceral reactions to things that happen. To cry if I need to. To cocoon for a bit if I need to. To get under the covers and comfort myself. To stop the world for a minute as needed. This is how I get through things. This is how I grow. By stopping for a bit and acknowledging what happened. Feeling it, moving through it. To the next step. 

And to be so grateful for it all. 

There were such gifts in this trauma. Neighbors coming together to help each other. Emergency crews there to help. Friends reaching out by text to check in. The miracle of no one getting hurt. Caring and connection strengthened. Life, and love, affirmed. 

Overcome by compassion for the suffering of others

I watched the news yesterday, and I cannot get an image out of my head. There was a very brief segment about the pope. He had been praying aloud to a crowd for the people suffering in Ukraine, when he had to stop in the midst of his prayer, overcome by emotion. 

He stepped back from the microphone, stood there for about 30 seconds, and simply bowed his head and wept quietly. Overcome by his emotions for the tremendous suffering of the people in Ukraine, the pain of it all flooding over him and making it unable for him to carry on for a few moments.

What a powerful image. To acknowledge the suffering, to take a moment and honor that pain that is so hard to contain. The pain that we humans are capable of inflicting on one another. 

I was raised Catholic, but identify more as spiritual rather than religious. I do like this particular pope as compared to others in the past. He allows himself to appear as more human, compassionate, willing to risk. I may not agree with all that he stands for, but I respect his dedication to a life of service and spreading a message of love and compassion. And I honor his tears.

He is aging, as we all do. And I wonder, as I have noticed in myself, if aging brings even more compassion and empathy and willingness to express those tender feelings when they come. To, indeed, honor their presence as a sacred gift. To no longer be as able to hold them back or inside of ourselves, as it becomes too much to contain. To no longer think that it is a strength to hold these feelings back or to try to hide them. 

I see this increasing tearfulness and inability to hold it back in myself. 

I cannot even tolerate passing a poor animal on the road that has been run over and died there for all to see as we drive by. My tears come.

 I have trouble watching the commercials on tv about animals left out in the cold, suffering, freezing, alone. More tears.

I can barely tolerate a bit of the news to feel like I have enough of an idea of what is going on in this very troubled world. My heart aches. 

 The wars and the suffering of people caught in the power struggle of leaders who are safe and away from all the destruction that they cause. Elders, children left out in the cold with no home, no family, nothing left. Families torn apart. Lives shattered.

The rising crime and people being robbed, hurt, abused, killed. People desperate and acting out of that desperation blindly, unable to contain anger and frustration and lashing out at others. 

School shootings of innocent young children who have barely begun their lives.

Hate crimes against others whose difference somehow threatens those who hate, attack, and kill them. Differences that somehow threaten rather than unite us in our common humanity. 

People in the world with not enough food to eat or to feed their children, with not enough clean water to drink. 

 An earth that continues to be destroyed and ravaged. 

An ocean filled with plastic and garbage. Whales washing up on shore whose bellies, when they are cut open, are filled with that plastic. 

Animals that are hunted to the point of extinction, and often not for food. Elephants killed for ivory trinkets. Their babies orphaned and abandoned.

 Farm animals treated with cruelty in the production of food with no sense of compassion for their lives and suffering. 

The list can go on and on. 

It feels like too much to bear, to contain. 

Perhaps, like the pope, with the courage to feel , to allow those feelings to permeate and fill our souls, perhaps this is what we all need. To acknowledge all the darkness and then somehow be able to face it and do something? To pray, feel, weep, and then somehow work to come together. 

We cannot change what we cannot name and face. Including that which lies within ourselves. Perhaps, as we name and face it and allow the pain of it all to wash through us, to step back and allow the tears, perhaps we can begin to begin to make decisions and take action from that open place, that wound, those tears. Sacred, powerful tears of compassion and humanity. 

Eating alone can be difficult

I live alone, and for the most part, love it. I crave solitude and quiet. It is where I can hear my spirit and soul. It is where I come back to replenish myself after being with others. It is where I can be completely myself. 

There is one part of living alone, however, that is a challenge for me. 

That part is eating by myself. I don’t know all the reasons why this particular activity brings up more feelings of aloneness and discomfort at times, but it does.

I have spoken with my women friends and many of us agree that going out to a restaurant alone (especially in the evenings) is often uncomfortable. That is one of the places where being uncoupled feels like it stands out more obviously. Table for one in a sea of tables for two or more.

And then, for me, there is also something difficult about eating alone at home. Our society can sometimes make reference to parts of this. I have had people ask me if I find it hard to cook for just myself? (Why, I wonder, is it referred to as just myself? As if that self doesn’t deserve as much?) I would like to be able to answer their question with the response that I love nurturing and cooking well for myself. But that would be a lie.

As I continue on this path of aging, I find myself more and more aware of this issue. And I am consciously working on asking myself what this is about, why I have such difficulty treating myself as I would treat another guest in my home. Do I not deserve as much? Can I resolve this and enjoy that time and embrace this most basic form of self care before I die? 

It’s complicated, I think. 

For one thing, I have issues with food. It is my drug of choice for numbing feelings of discomfort. And it leads to weight issues, which then lead to more increasing issues with eating and food. A vicious cycle. Not an uncommon issue among women, I think. 

I have never been into cooking that much. As an only child of an Italian mother, the kitchen was really her domain and I never learned to cook from her. She was a great cook and I am sad to not carry on that piece of her. She would shoo me away from the kitchen at times and tell me to go and do my homework. 

What I have learned about cooking has mostly been from cookbooks. That’s ok. What’s not so ok is that I don’t take the time or expend the energy on myself. 

On the somewhat rare occasion when I do spend time preparing food and meals for myself, like when I feel like cooking up some things on a weekend for the week ahead, I enjoy it. I can feel the self nourishing quality of doing this for myself.

I don’t keep it up. 

I don’t always sit at my dining table to eat either. 

I am working on doing this more, to acknowledge and be conscious of nourishing myself with a meal and allowing myself to begin to enjoy the whole ritual around that. To acknowledge that I am alone and that this is ok. That this can be a time to truly self nurture both body and soul without distraction.  

Some more history. Growing up, eating at the table held mixed feelings for me. Dinner times at the table were those times when my father would focus on me, focus on things that he felt might be less than ideal, and talk about them, lament about them. Maybe something that he didn’t like about my face, or how I ate, or something that he had noticed that I might have done that he was not pleased with. 

 God, how I dreaded those times. My stomach would clench into a knot as I waited for what was coming when, during those times, I could feel his gaze slowly turn toward me. Sometimes I could try and distract him by bringing up something that I knew that he would want to talk about, but most of the time I did not feel like it was my place to initiate any conversation. That was mostly a role left for my father.

We didn’t really go out to eat either, as my father thought it was a waste of money, and also would say that no one could rival my mother’s cooking anyway. I wondered, though, if she might not want a break sometimes, to feel treated and taken out. 

And so I sit at my own table, breathing deeply into any feelings that come up and ask those feelings what there is to learn, to acknowledge, to admit, to work through. Now that I am an older woman, I want to be able to simply surrender into what is my current truth and honor that. To understand that I have consciously chosen to be alone at this time of my life to finally discover who I am. Without being defined by anyone else’s boundaries or definitions of who or what I am or should be. 

I want to own this Self that has taken me a lifetime, soon almost 70 years, to come home to. This Self that has gone through my own stories, as we all do, and is still here to tell them. This Self that is still here to keep creating more tales to tell, until the time for stories runs out. 

I want to nourish and nurture this self. Not only with my writing and painting and walks in the redwoods, but to literally admit and consciously welcome the nurturing of my body with food. Food that I have prepared. To welcome the love of self that involves feeding myself healthy, nourishing food. 

To finally claim the right to sit and enjoy my own company. 

At my table for one.