Holding A Single Candle

Alone, yet connected to so many

I walked to the end of my tiny street with my candle, tears beginning to flow.

I had been following the horror of another person killed by Border Patrol, Alex Pretti, only weeks after the killing of Renee Good by ICE.

I cannot absorb the pain at times. I cannot imagine what their families are going through. I feel such deep sorrow and outrage and, at times, bewilderment. How did we get here?

I watched the news in horror all day covering the death of Alex, as I had watched about Renee. A friend sent me a message that there was going to be a time that evening, 7 pm local time wherever you were, when people were invited to be outside, on corners, on their street, holding lighted candles in a ritual of remembrance.

So, I got my candle and walked down the hill of our tiny street. I did not see anyone else around, and thought that maybe others had organized themselves to be together in a more main location. Still, there I was with my candle and matches.

I took a deep breath and lit the candle, placing it on top of our row of mailboxes as I stood there. Cars drove by, some looked. It was a quiet evening. I thought about Alex, an ICU nurse. I’m retired now, but in my career as a social worker, I have worked with a lot of nurses and have such respect for all that they do and the care that they provide.

Here was an ICU nurse, shot down after trying to help someone else who had been shoved down. I watched the different versions of the videos that people had taken and saw what happened. Thank God for videos. I am enraged at the government trying to spin the story as they are, when we can see with our own eyes what happened. Of course there should be a full investigation by all, including the local authorities.

Standing there with my solitary candle, I could feel the connection to others who were doing the same, even if I could not see them right then. I felt my heart ache for this young man and his heart to protest and to help others. I could feel the still fresh pain from the killing of Renee Good. I could feel a part of all of us that are outraged and sometimes don’t even know where to put our anger. There was a video of a 70-year-old gentleman who was in agony and enraged at what he had seen, at what happened. I know that many of us understood and felt that inconsolable pain.

I see many of my peers, elders, at protests. We have seen much in our lives, have been involved in other protests perhaps, and are feeling the trauma that we are now in. We are out there, using our voices, holding up our signs, holding our candles.

After a little while, my neighbor, who had wondered who was hanging out by the mailboxes, came down to stand by me. We talked about what had happened, about our pain and outrage, about the loss, the death, the crumbling of our democracy. We hugged each other and honored the memory of Alex, as well as Renee.

I walked back up to my home after a bit. I felt as if it had been important to my soul for me to to be out there with my solitary candle, to take action, to bear witness to the pain, to express it so that others could see and also remember and feel it.

As an elder, sometimes it is easy for me to discount that my actions can make any difference. What can I do, as a 72 year old woman? What difference will it make? Who cares if I light my tiny candle alone?

It made a difference to my soul. It made a difference to my heart. And it motivated me to see what else I can be involved in, in addition to attending protests, writing post cards, contributing financially where I can.

I went to bed, sobered, deep in thought and feeling. Around midnight I woke up and felt compelled to open my back door and step outside. At that moment a strong breeze swept through me, which is unusual around my area, as the wind usually dies down at dusk. It stopped as soon as it came, but it felt as if it went right through me. I felt the spirit of all that is going on, felt the pain of those we have lost already in this crisis, of all those that we don’t hear about who have been “disappeared” (what an interesting term that has become common these days), of all the suffering being inflicted, the separations, the young children, the people just trying to make a life for their families, all of us Americans who they are trying to turn against each other.

I have written before about walking in the redwoods and sometimes hearing the rustling of the leaves and feeling as if I am hearing the whispering of the Voice of God. Maybe God was speaking again, through the wind, through the outrage of so many, through the compassion and love that we can still see and feel in the crowds that hold each other and sing and chant together, in the light of a tiny candle multiplied even if we do not see it at the moment. We are many, and we have more power than we know. We are all Americans and we cannot let them divide us against each other. We all want the best for our families and for our beloved country, a country that has stood for so much, imperfectly for sure, but at least had been trying to move in the direction of creating a better world for all.

Let’s use our voices, make our signs, call who we can, come together so that we can see how many of us there are, and light our candles to begin to burn away this hatred and evil.

The Passion of Age

Sexuality, rage, aliveness…. all still so much a part of me

Photo by Nicolas Nieves-Quiroz on Unsplash

I am now in the land of elderhood. I didn’t know what it would be like. It’s different than I imagined.

I didn’t know that I would keep all the younger versions of me still inside, still feeling, still reacting, still loving, still alive.

I am the child filled with wonder and awe. I can stare up at the crowns of redwoods forever, gaze into the eyes of an animal and see their soul, watch a sunset and feel the sacredness of that moment.

I remember the delights of youth, the excitement, the playfulness, and the passion.

Ah, passion.

No one told me that the passion would still be with me, that in some ways it seems to grow in depth and richness. No one told me that my body can still shiver from the whisper of a breeze, the nuzzle of a furry friend, the gentle touch of a friend on my shoulder, and the gaze of someone who I feel attracted to. What? Is that still there? Really?

Indeed it is there…ripe, succulent, delicious to feel inside. I feel the color of it, the heat of it, the vibration and trembling of it. No one else may see it, but that doesn’t have to mean that I don’t see it, feel it, appreciate it. If I happen to find someone to share this with, as we both acknowledge this, that’s great. If I don’t, that’s ok. It’s still there to be experienced, felt, and cherished.

I hear the whispering of the wind through the trees, as I feel my own skin reacting and shivering in response.

I delight in the connection of eye contact with another being, often 4-legged these days, as we see each other in ways that are beyond words. I smile as they delight in a belly rub or ear scratch, delight in their response to my touch, their licks on my face. their tail wagging in excitement.

I enjoy the warm embrace of another human as we drop our masks in that moment and allow touch to cross boundaries, feeling the physical presence of each other.

I honor the sensuality within me. I enjoy long showers where I treat my skin and body with care and love, soft pillows and sheets that I can nestle into at the end of a day (or whenever needed), standing with my back to the fireplace getting “toasty buns” and how delicious that warmth can feel in the chill of a morning or evening. I smile at a cup of hot chocolate (with marshmallows sometimes) and the sensual comfort that this can bring. I honor the feel of a tree, its branches and leaves as I place my hands on it. I feel the sun on my face, the wind blowing through my hair.

I notice the trembling I feel inside at the kind touch of a stranger on my shoulder when they relate to something that I may have shared, the warmth I feel when reading someone’s response to my writing and their vulnerable sharing of what it touched in them.

When I volunteer at the zoo, I marvel at the touch of a child coming up to me and feeling comfortable as if they know me, leaning into me as we both watch the animals.

I also feel the aliveness of the pain of loss that goes directly to my heart, feeling the essence of who I may have lost, the feel of their spirit still within me, the ache in my heart where they will now permanently live.

I feel the loss of friends and loved ones that comes ever more frequently on this aging path, as well as the pain of trying to contain the sense of my own mortality and expiration date. This makes me honor the preciousness of each moment so much more and want to taste it fully, drink it in, feel it in all its forms.

I watch and hear injustice and cruelty that I see around us at times, especially lately in our political environment, the selfishness and complete lack of empathy and compassion, the pain of human inflicted suffering, the cruelty of war and sending our young to fight the battles of the old safe politicians. I feel the fire of the rage and pain within me.

I recently was delighted at hearing a stranger’s comment passing by as I walked in my favorite redwood park. The younger woman of the two felt compelled to say that she had a feeling when I walked by her that God had told her to let me know that He’s got you. I don’t identify as particularly religious, but I heard the feeling and intention beneath what she said and took comfort in that. Then the older woman talked about having left broken eggshells at one of her favorite trees to symbolize her broken parts. She said that she was giving it to the Universe to heal, letting go, allowing herself to be more than those broken pieces. How eloquent and beautiful her ritual sounded. All this was shared with two women I had never met, a deep connection in a random moment. I felt the Universe/God speaking to me, letting me feel heard, seen, and loved. Later, I could feel the depth of my tears and where they came from, taste their saltiness, allow the release from deep within.

Recently I inhaled the scent of a lilac. This was a special gift for me, after having lost almost all of my sense of smell due to some sinus surgery decades ago. There was joy in that moment of being able to inhale that heavenly scent, the flower gifted to me from my sweet young neighbor…just because.

I hear the music of birds and its melody touches me, helps me to stop and listen. What else can I hear in that moment? I am reminded to slow down, pay attention, listen with all of you, all of your passion.

We heal mentally, spiritually, and physically with our sensuality and all of our senses. We become one with whatever we are experiencing. We become lovers to the tree, the flower, the earth itself. We are entwined and soak each other in, connect and are together, separate yet one.

May we feel this all. Becoming an elder can bring a new depth to our passion, if we tune in, and a new awareness of how precious each breath, each sense, each moment is. Do we lose this as we age? I think it’s rather the opposite. We feel it more, we contain years of it and how it changes forms and textures, and we can soak ourselves in this.

May we feel spent at the end, having lived fully, passionately, vibrantly, messily, joyfully, embracing each moment with every fiber of our being.

The Gift of Sadness

We need not fear it

I’ve noticed how difficult it can be at times to simply sit and be with someone in their sadness.

It can be hard to see someone struggling, especially someone that we care about. It’s hard to see their tears, feel their pain, and to be with them in the darker parts of being human. We are drawn to want to help them feel better. I know that I can fall into that pattern as well and have to try and catch myself.

Maybe their sadness also reminds us of our own struggles, pain, and grief.

And so, well intentioned as it may be, we may try to distract them, ask them about something positive, try to help them see things differently, tell them that this too shall pass, or relate our own sad story and how we got through it.

But what if we just sat beside them and listened, perhaps put a hand on their shoulder for a moment, and let them know we are there beside them, caring, hearing them, seeing them?

We are not taught to be comfortable with all of our own feelings, to honor all of them and not just those that may feel more pleasurable. And if we are not comfortable with our own feelings, it’s also harder to be comfortable with someone else’s.

I think that sadness can be a gift of being human. We feel, and that’s a gift. And to feel sadness can mean we have loved and lost, or that we have lived and been bruised by life in other ways…. and to then share that with another is to expose a very tender and vulnerable part of ourselves. Sharing that vulnerability can create more depth and true connection between us, as we acknowledge each of our fragile places inside and treat them tenderly and with love.

I was watching a TV program the other day as this soulful singer performed “What Makes You Sad” ( Nicotine Dolls/ Sam Cieri.) When he sang the line “Tell me what makes you sad”, that question went right to my core. I could imagine someone asking me that, how that would make me feel that they wanted to really know me on a deeper level. As the song continued and the camera showed members of the audience, I could see others reacting as well, especially women, holding their hands up to their hearts.

Think about it…. If I ask you to tell me what makes you sad, what does that touch inside of you?

I have a dear friend who frequently asks me, when we talk on the phone, about what good things happened to me that day. I appreciate that he wants to know that, but there are times that his question may shut down where I really am emotionally at the moment, as I get the message that he only wants to hear the positive experiences. And so that’s what I share. But it inadvertently can create a bit more distance rather than closeness. And he’s not someone that I would likely call when I’m upset and need to talk.

Life has joy and pain, laughter and tears, and much bittersweetness. It’s all part of being human, of who we are and what we go through on this journey. How sacred it can be to share all of this with each other, to acknowledge our pain and broken pieces, and to realize we are in this together and can offer each other understanding, comfort, and love.

Maybe we can begin by hearing our own sadness, by really listening to our hearts and asking ourselves… Tell me what makes you sad… So then we will know the answer when someone asks us, and can more deeply hear their answer when we ask them.

There is Healing Yet to be Done

It’s time to heal those old wounds at a deeper level

I have been having memories and feelings from my past and from my entire life come up more as I continue my path of aging. I finally stopped and began to listen, rather than judging myself for ruminating and dwelling too much on things gone by.

Maybe, I thought, there are good reasons that all this seems to be coming up so intensely right now.

It’s so easy to get caught up in the self-judgments about not wasting time worrying about things long gone, about needing to let go, about moving on, about not obsessing. Judgments and negative critical inner voices abound. They always have lived in my head.

So, maybe it’s time to get curious with them, to ask them to talk with me.

I have had losses lately, as we all do. They come more frequently as we age. I wrote about one major loss for me lately, the loss of my elephant friend.

I wanted to explore within myself and go a little deeper with the pure pain of this loss, the loss that seemed to hit in a different way and depth than human loss. What was this, I wondered.

I came to realize, as I lay awake at 3am one morning, that this was a relationship where I felt totally accepted without judgment, seen without comment, observed and felt without advice, and included in breathing together at that moment in time.

I do not go into the past to assign blame, but rather gather up my younger self and hold her, embrace her, understand her, and love her. As an adult, and now especially as an elder, I think it’s time to give her what she has needed from me all along, to finally let her know that I am here, that I hear her, that I acknowledge the pain and hurt that she felt, that I feel her aloneness and can now step in to fill some of that empty space inside of her that has been with her for so long.

The empty space is one that I learned to look outside of myself to try and fill, which never worked. That emptiness cannot be filled from outside or from others, but must be filled from within, from self and from whatever that spiritual connection is for each of us, both inside ourselves and with the Universe. For me, it can be filled with things like connection with the trees in the forest that can bring me to tears, or the connection with animals that makes my heart smile and their tails wag or their internal motors purr.

Some of my background

I was an only child of immigrant parents who were trying their best to do what they could to give me a better life than they had. And they did. But they had their own deep wounds, and those are passed on through the generations as each layer tries to heal a bit more.

I came from the time when children were to be molded, to be seen and not heard, to be told who they were and what they were supposed to do. And as a girl, I was taught to look to a man for definition of self, to look forward to embracing motherhood and all the roles.

Except that this didn’t fit for me. And that was not ok in my family. My mother never forgave me for abandoning her to go away to college. The truth is that I felt like I was suffocating at home and fought tooth and nail to get out of the house, and ended up, in my sophomore year at college, having to support myself. And I did. I knew that my very life, my core, was at stake. I had to save myself.

I learned to look for other relationships to try and get love. I looked for a career where I could earn my right to exist on this planet. I tried to be what I thought was a good person. I tried to fit in. But I didn’t.

I had no children. I am ok with this decision. I doubted my ability to parent and thought that I would once again become part of the enmeshment with my family of origin and then forever lose my separate identity.

I chose partners who were sometimes familiar with the pattern of not really hearing or listening to me. It was what I was used to, what I was trying to heal, trying to get things from someone who might not have been able to give that to me. This was in no way their fault. These were just choices made from our mutual wounds that are often destined to fail.

The pain is still there and asking for my attention

And now I lay in bed sometimes and feel that little girl within me. At this age, I can feel embarrassed about this, but it’s real, and she is there, asking to be heard, seen, protected, and held.

I have been isolated quite a bit since retiring and have been curious about that. Now I see that it has taken that long for that child part of me to trust and to come back out from deep inside me to tell me her story, my story.

My story is one of feeling alone, not heard, not seen, not accepted. And the painful part is that I learned to continue those judgments toward myself, to see myself as not good enough, as wrong and defective somehow, as needing to justify my existence, and as needing to try and shape, bend, and twist myself to try and meet other’s expectations, causing me to abandon myself.

Enough. I would say to that inner little girl still so very much inside of me…I am here, and I will hear you and listen. We can be alone and quiet for as long as you need. I will keep you safe. If I make a mistake, I will catch it as soon as I can. I see and remember and feel your pain and deep loneliness. You have been lonely for me. I am here, finally.

I can’t change the past, but I can learn from it. I can now learn how to give myself what I need. And this can help me be better able to be with others. As I feel nourished, I can give more authentically.

Becoming my own grandmother

I think that maybe I need to be the grandmother to myself, the elder, the one with wisdom of an even older generation, without the mother-daughter dynamics getting in the way. The elder wise crone can perhaps give more of what the child within needed then and what I need now…an elder, a wise woman, a soft place to be comforted and loved without anything getting in the way of that pure love.

I can now love myself into safety and wholeness, finally, heal the layers of grief, and begin to take care of all the unfinished business. There is healing yet to be done, while there is still time.