Embracing Souls

Gracefulness has been defined

to be the outward expression of

inward harmony of the  soul. 

--William Hazlitt

Help! I've Been High Jacked!

Just when I was beginning to praise modern technology some one ups and high jacks my personal email
address!

Wasn't it just last week I confessed that technology "has provided me with the greatest amount of satisfaction and happiness I have had in my life." (Exaggeration always comes back to bite me in the butt.)

Just a few nights ago, apparently someone hacked into my email, high jacked my contact list, and sent spam to everyone on the list--in my name. (Let your guard down for one minute and...bam!)


I feel betrayed by my whole computer system. How could this have happened? More importantly, what can I do about it?

Creating a new email address is just one step in a process. Can any of my readers suggest what else I can do to protect myself in cyberspace?

There is another way to view this incident. (I look...and I must giggle.) For more than two years,  I have needed to change my personal email address because it was created by Chaz, my former husband, and the address contained letters from his name. The time had come to do something about that.

Change was afoot, but I was dragging my feet. (I feared fiddling around with my computer and its programs.)

So...boom...
a problem arises...
which necessitates a new address, pronto...
I figure out how to take care of the problem
(this is a big deal for a computerphobe)
and one more thing on my mile-long To-Do List is done!

Signs and Wonders!

One Never Knows Does One?

Dear Readers: Welcome to the first Monday blog. For now and into the foreseeable future, I will publish My Seat on the Beach on Monday afternoons rather than on Friday evenings. The new schedule will give me an opportunity to take my blog to the next level: I plan to write responses in the comment section to further discussion there... and here.

When I started this blog, it was with the intention of establishing the discipline of writing at least one piece per week. At the time, I did not foresee that I would develop a readership of people who enjoy responding to each others' blog comments as well as responding to my blog entries. I confess, I love reading the blog conversations and banter as much as writing the entries.

So, I want to get in on the action. With the new publishing schedule, I will have time to correspond with my readers during the week through the comment section. I can imagine new blog topics will grow out of this exchange, new friendships will develop, and old friendships will be renewed.

The irony of all of this is: Until three years ago, I was a technophobe and techno-Scrooge. I teach communication courses at a college in San Jose, CA--public speaking, interpersonal communication, small group communication, and argumentation. Make no mistake, I have a bias in favor of face-to-face communication--no keyboards, no icons, no buttons, no earphones--no muss, no fuss.

I hate that people expected me to answer email. I have a cell phone I barely use (and don't ask me my cell number; I don't know it.) Digital cameras discombobulate me, I-Pods perplex me, and Blackberries make me itch. Most of the time, I don't even answer my home phone.

So, I have to laugh at myself when I realize that menacing machinery has provided me with the greatest amount of satisfaction and happiness I have had in my life: 1) My Seat on the Beach--brought to you by modern technology, and 2) My reunion with Buddy--made possible by. none other than the technological advances I have scorned.

One never knows, does one?

Leave Room for the Miracles--Part Two

YaYa: Buddy, will you tell my blog readers what you thought when you received the condolence email from me?

Buddy: The day I read your note, I immediately exhaled and thought: “There you are! Where have you been? What took you so long?” But I thought the brief response I composed and sent back was perfectly generic and non-commital. (Laugh)

YaYa: We probably should give some background on our unusual friendship. Do you want to start?

Buddy: We became friends, almost thirty years ago, when we were in our mid-twenties. We bonded quickly and intensely.

YaYa: We shared an affinity for cooking together, eating, dancing, and the outdoors. Buddy had a motor cycle then (and now) and, oh, how I loved riding on the back of that bike. What a liberating feeling!

Buddy: But our burgeoning love did not have a chance to fully flourish. My circumstances…it was an inopportune time…

YaYa: We could not fully commit to each other. The relationship, after a lovely and soulful six months, ended swiftly…and painfully.

Buddy: Timed passed. We did not hear a word from each other for six years, but I thought about you more than you'll ever know.

YaYa: And then…and on this part we are fuzzy …we ran into each other but we don’t agree on the details. My friend Gus seems to remember that one evening he and I were at the movie theatre and saw  Buddy there.

Buddy: I don’t recall that. But here is what I remember of that time: My son was 4 years old and my former wife had recently told me she was leaving the marriage. The legal process of my divorce went relatively smoothly. What it did to me on the inside is another story.

The gavel came down on my marriage one spring afternoon after our being in court for less than an hour. In a coma like fashion, I walked out of the court house to begin the ritual of going through pictures, documents, etc. It was during that time, once again, that visions of YaYa came to me stronger than ever.

YaYa: When we saw each other, my heart went out to you. You were a mess. But in the new year, I would be leaving for California, so I knew we had to maintain a strictly platonic friendship. I tried  to get you interested in one of my sister’s friends. How insensitive of me. I had no idea what kind of pain you were in then. Now, after my divorce fiasco, I understand how very raw you were at the time.

Buddy: It is amazing to reconnect after all these years. I had not seen you since the spring of 1986 when I helped you pack your belongings to move.

YaYa: The irony of it all was not lost on either one of us back then.

Buddy: We kept in touch, periodically, for the next four years.

YaYa: I finished grad school in June of 1990, and in the fall, Buddy and I started making plans to see each other again. But then I got cold feet. I had just started a new career, teaching in a college setting.

I knew if I saw Buddy again… let’s just say… I did not wanted to be tempted to return to New Jersey. Buddy was running his Dad’s business, so I couldn’t imagine that he would move to California; and a bi-coastal relationship, at the time, was unfathomable. Better leave well enough alone. So we severed our ties again. Always, a clean cut.

Buddy: So we had not talked or written to each other since the end of 1990.

YaYa: That’s right. And I met Chaz six months later and married him two years after that. You and I have not been in touch for 18 years.

Buddy: Yup. I had no idea you had married, until I saw that hyphenated name. And then I thought: “This beautiful woman for whom I have kept my heart open all these years just couldn't be married.”

How long did it take for you to tell me you were divorced?

YaYa: I waited for a little over two weeks. I had to think. Truthfully, I did not expect to hear from you. I was sure you were remarried with a slew of children. But when you responded, I knew if I walked through the door that you had just flung open, this would be our opportuned time.







Starting this Monday, March 2, My Seat on the Beach will be published on Mondays.

Leave Room for the Miracles--Part One

For weeks, I have been trying to decide how to introduce you to Buddy, the man with whom I share my heart. After reading last week's blog, one of my closest girlfriends wrote: "Not only has Buddy declared his devotion to you in several blog comment sections, but the man can write!"

'Tis true! He writes tender, touching letters. Adoring, alluring letters. A throw back to when people slowed down and synched their pace in order to create the nesting place that would contain their love. A time when lovers took the space to bask in each other's affection, linger in one another's arms, and swim together in bliss.

And when they were apart? Love letters straight from the heart. Magnificent, moving words of love and devotion bridged the gap.

When I mentioned my fondness for Buddy's way with words to a sister friend from a weekly writing group, she suggested that Buddy and I write a series of blog entries together. This struck us as a rather intimate way to share with you our story of rekindled love and recent wedding engagement. Herein the story that is still in creation.

(The words in italics are Buddy's)

The drive back from Florida to New Jersey this past July seemed longer than any other. I had made this trip innumerable times, visiting my parents who had retired to Fort Myer's ten years earlier. But this journey was different. My Dad had just passed away, leaving me 1,500 miles to reflect upon my life and how long would it last, I was 57 years old, my father had been 86. What had I done with my life and most importantly, how would I live the rest of it?

I suppose it's not all that uncommon for a son to think about such things, but these thoughts were coming to the surface of my mind just as quickly as the white lines were approaching then disappearing under my car as I drove 80 mph up Interstate 95.  


As much as I wanted to shake them off, trying to distract myself by counting the carcasses of road kill on the highway, the thoughts kept flying back...me, raising my son as a single parent; me taking over my father's turf products business; me, life of the party; me, lonely. 


By the time I arrived home and slunk into the seat in front of  my computer, I had just enough energy to turn it on. I've got mail. Junk email, some business mail, and letters of sympathy from people who had read my father's obituary in the local county paper. 


One email leapt out of the monitor like a run-away train, tore through my chest, and lodged itself in my heart. "Could it be?" I asked as I slumped back into the chair. I sat there motionless for about a week (or so it seemed). What I remember and will never forget is how my eyes swelled and teared each time I leaned forward and peered at her name. Yes, it was surely her, the forever love of my life, I had received an email from the woman I had loved for three decades and had not heard from in 18 years. 


My vision blurred. I could not clear it. What was this...an extra surname attached to hers? What is that other last name? That doesn't belong there!!! Make it go away, pleeeeeease make it go away. Could it be? Could my heart and soul be....MARRIED????? 


Alas, there it was, the signature appearing in billboard size letters:Sincerely,  YaYa Bowmann-Kinsley.


(YaYa's account.)

Somethings cannot be explained and this is one: I had known, for some time, that I would reconnect with Buddy by reading his father's obituary in the newspaper. Buddy is a "junior" so I figured I would recognize the name. I don't know how long I had possessed this "understanding."

Actually this is not such a far fetched idea, connecting with old friends at times of death. I am the daughter of a funeral director and I lived over a funeral home for eight years of my life. I saw these reunions happen all the time.

And, as a child,  I regularly helped my Dad write obituaries. When I was hired as a reporter on the county newspaper,  many years later, my first job was "obituary writer." I tell you this to make the point: Its not out-of-the norm that I would gravitate toward reading obituaries. Some years back, I had started reading the on-line obits from my hometown  paper. I read them daily...religiously. I told myself reading the obituaries provided a sensible way to strike up a conversation when I talked to my parents in New Jersey on the week-ends. I can not tell you how long I had been doing this, nor how long I knew Buddy and I would discover the whereabouts of each other through this ritual.

One morning, after going through my daily paces (feed the cats, prepare the coffee, light the candle and incense) I sat down to read the obituaries. There I saw the name that would extend the bridge to the man who had loved me the fullest--ever--in my life.

I sent a condolence email to the funeral home in Fort Myer's, addressed to Buddy. I signed it: Sincerely, YaYa Bowmann-Kinsley. I  used my married name, though my long, drawn-out divorce had been finalized five months earlier--on Valentine's Day!!! Somehow, using the married name seemed...safer.

It was almost a month before I heard from Buddy. In the interim, his nephew, Daniel, 25, had passed after suffering with liver cancer for six years. His father and his nephew-both within a month. My heart telegraphed a message to his: "How are you coping, dear one? I hold you in light and love."

Several days later, I heard from Buddy in a very brief email:

"Oh my God....Karen ? How
thoughtful. How are you ? By
your name, I'm guessing I
missed my chance, and you got
married. Let's keep in touch.
Buddy"


Next Week : Leave Room for the Miracles--Part II


Remember, beginning in March, My Seat on the Beach will be published on Mondays.

I'm Giving All My Candy to Buddy!*

 


I Am Away 


for 


Valentine's Day!



 Details next week.




 Who is Buddy? See the comment sections of the following My Seat on the Beach blogs for an introduction (scroll down to Buddy's name):

1. Here is Your First Blog Quiz of the Fall 2008 Semester--Friday, August 29
2. Counting My Blessings--Friday, November 21
3. Advent Star--Friday, December 5
4. The Message in the Bottle--Friday, December 12
5. Take the Time to Write--Friday, January 9



(To find the aforementioned blogs, just scroll down to the bottom of this page. You will see a left-hand column with the months listed. Click on the corresponding months to find the blog pieces.)




 Note Bene: Starting the first Monday of March, the My Seat on the Beach Blog will be published on Mondays.

Moving to the Beat of a Different Drummer

"If a man loses pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured, or far away. " --Henry David Thoreau

 Or...perhaps she has fibromyalgia and just can't move as quickly as everyone else.

Perhaps she aches so much that on some days she can't move at all.

Perhaps she is so fatigued that she can't even hear the music.

Or...perhaps her fibro fog is so thick she can't  distinguish the beat.


We fibromyalgia sufferers are not lazy, we are not party-poopers, we are not hypochondriacs.

We are brave people who are dealing with a poorly understood illness.

We are trying to live our lives as fully as possible on a limited amount of energy per day.

Sometimes it really helps when our companions are willing to slow down and move to the beat of our drummer.

Pain, Pain, Go Away: Dealing with Chronic Pain

I knew last week when I mentioned I live with chronic pain, I would receive a lot of inquiries. I heard from several fibromyalgia sufferers, people like myself, who seriously need the support of others who deal with this mysterious ailment and desperately want the compassion of others.

I also heard from the curious, the stoic, and, the cynical, those who believe fibromylagia is just the syndrome du jour of yuppie middle-aged women. And so it is when you reveal an uncomfortable truth about yourself. People have questions. Some have doubts. All need information.

So this week, I am going to address the innocent, yet frustrating, refrain: "You don't look like you are in pain."  Earlier this evening, I went in search of a pictorial depiction of pain. I wanted to see that which I obviously do not resemble. Here is what I found...the ubiquitous pain chart many hospitals give patients after surgery or other painful procedures to assist us in describing the undescribable.

Okay, so we all can agree, there is no resemblance between YaYa and the happy faces gone awry above.

The faces actually have some credibility; its the verbal descriptions that are an insult to anyone struggling to function with pain. Who is going to take seriously: "I hurt a little bit"? Who is going to prescribe a pain killer for: "It hurts a little more"? When does "It hurts even more" become "It hurts a whole lot"?

Years ago, my Mom, a nurse, taught her children certain words to help explain unpleasant body sensations. We learned terms to describe degrees of discomfort. I seem to remember words like: "soar, achey, throbbing pain, burning pain, and stabbing pain." All of which, by the way, can describe fibromyalgia, along with the phrase "electric shocking pain" which is my term for the neural pain that can accompany this disorder.

Pain is such a subjective phenomenon, and there does not exist a universally accepted chart that accurately depicts everyone's experience. I did discover a verbal explanation that sufferers could find helpful. This pain scale, designed by Andrea Mankoski, is considered useful in describing the severity, if not the quality, of pain.

(Whenever a medical professional  asks you to rate your pain from 1 - 10, ask for a pain scale so you can be sure you're speaking the same language.)
 
0 - Pain free
1 - Very minor annoyance - occasional minor twinges.
2 - Minor annoyance - occasional strong twinges.
3 - Annoying enough to be distracting.
4 - Can be ignored if you are really involved in your work, but still distracting.
5 - Can't be ignored for more than 30 minutes.
6 - Can't be ignored for any length of time, but you can still go to work and participate in social activities.
7 - Makes it difficult to concentrate, interferes with sleep You can still function with effort.
8 - Physical activity severely limited. You can read and converse with effort. Nausea and dizziness set in as factors of pain.
9 - Unable to speak. Crying out or moaning uncontrollably - near delirium.
10 - Unconscious. Pain makes you pass out.

Throughout the year, depending on such things as the weather, my workload, my level of physical activity, my weight, my mental health, the stress in my life, and the quality of my sleep, I fluctuate between six and eight on this scale. 

Since so many people are visual learners, I have made an effort to show you my pain levels. To do so, I solicited the help of a familiar cartoon character: Wile E. Coyote(WEC).

1. WEC reading a book = I feel fine.


2. WEC holding a  help sign = My head, neck, and shoulders are aching and burning; I am waking up frequently during the night due to the discomfort.







3. WEC with mousetraps attached to his
extremities = I am hurting everywhere;
sleep is painful and sporadic. I know my pain
will increase because the quality of my sleep is decreasing.

 

4. Boulder crashing down on WEC's head = Heavy fatigue has set in. I am experiencing "fibrofog"--difficulty thinking and concentrating.



5. WEC is crashing = So is YaYa. My hips and legs throb; I feel dizzy and nauseous from the fatigue and pain. A fibromylagic flare-up is in effect.

6. WEC experiences a complete crash and burn =  Unfortunately, once I have a full-fledged flare-up, I   do not know how long it will last--sometimes weeks, sometimes months.  Luckily, with a multi-pronged approach to treatment, I am able to keep my fibromyalgia in check most of the time. Some  patients must stop working if their flare-ups persist and worsen.  
                                                                               

Next week: Dancing to the beat of a different drummer.

              

A Delicate Balance

A visitor recently questioned me about the stacks of river rocks he saw throughout my home and on the balconies.

"What are these," he asked in a curious little boy kind of way.

"They're rocks," I replied.

"Yeah, but what are they for?"

For a moment I was stumped.

I have used these smooth stones to adorn my space over the past few years, after once seeing an impressive number of them along the perimeter wall of a local beach. Stones, washed up from the sea, not of uniform size, placed precariously one on  top of another. They spoke to me then; they speak to me now.

Each stack is a testimony to aspects of life: the startling beauty of nature in its nakedness; the power of turbulence to shape, smooth, and polish the rough and rugged; and the harmony present in simplicity.

 Lately, these rock altars have reminded me of the balance which has become the essential tempo of my life; for, I live with a chronic illness that drains me of energy in a minute, visits me with pain for hours, and can rob me of sleep for nights on end. I am one of 10 million Americans who suffer from fibromyalgia, a chronic pain disorder characterized by:
                                                    
                                                too little energy
                                                    on top of
                                       impaired memory and concentration
                                                     on top of
                                        not enough restorative sleep
                                                    on top of
                                   widespread musculoskeletal aches and pain
                                                    on top of
                                              soft tissue tenderness
                                                     on top of
                                     too many mental and physical demands

Each day, I must strike a workable balance between these asymmetrical elements of my physical world and the desires of my spirit for inner peace, love, joy, and acceptance.

My stone altars are a testament to what a delicate balance that is!



  
                              

The Inauguration Is Set to Rock

All week I have been seeking the official word on who will perform at the inaugural events next week. Today, a list of names was published including such luminaries as Stevie Wonder, James Taylor, Bruce Springsteen, Herbie Hancock, Sheryl Crow, Garth Brooks, Mary J. Blige, Usher, and Beyonce, amongst others. So now that I know to whom the Obamas and the rest of the nation will be be rockin', I want to know what songs will be droppin'.  But I have to tell you, this seems like a closely held secret.

Rumor has it Bruce Springsteen will be singing "This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land." If this is so, we all might benefit from reviewing the lyrics.  'Ya wanna know them? Here they go:

This Land is Your Land

 by Woody Guthrie, 1940

 Chorus:
This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me

As I was walking a ribbon of highway
I saw above me an endless skyway
I saw below me a golden valley
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

I've roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
And all around me a voice was sounding
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

As I was walkin'  -  I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress passin'
But on the other side  .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!

Chorus

In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.

 On Another Note

Don't get me wrong, I'm down with a good old American folk song, 

but, since I am a child of the '60s, I want to hear a song from the 

civil rights era. No, I am not hankering for "Lift Every Voice and Sing," or "We Shall Overcome."

Rather, I want to hear the song my parents played repeatedly for my brother and 

me after we integrated New Jersey private schools in 1965 and 

1967, respectively. 

Ya wanna see the lyrics? Here they go: 

To Be Young, Gifted and Black 

by Ms. Nina Simone, 1969 

To be young, gifted and black,
Oh what a lovely precious dream
To be young, gifted and black,
Open your heart to what I mean

In the whole world you know
There are billion boys and girls
Who are young, gifted and black,
And that’s a fact!

You are young, gifted and black
We must begin to tell our young
There’s a world waiting for you
This is a quest that’s just begun

When you feel really low
Yeah, there’s a great truth you should know
When you’re young, gifted and black
Your soul’s intact

Young, gifted and black
How I long to know the truth
There are times when I look back
And I am haunted by my youth

Oh but my joy of today
Is that we can all be proud to say
To be young, gifted and black
Is where it’s at.
 

What songs would you like to hear performed during the inaugural celebration? 

Take the Time to Write

Do you remember the last time you penned a personal letter? Not an email, not a text message, but an old fashioned, hand-written letter, bearing a first class stamp?

Do you remember the last time you waited to receive such a letter, one identified by the penmanship and the faint scent of a loved one?

We have replaced the anticipation of a personal missive with the instantaneous receipt of an email; the sweet excitement of a message dressed in the personal style of another's script for the efficiency of a message written in multiple abbreviations.

We have lost the art of letter writing, and with it, a crucial vehicle for communicating appreciation, celebration, creativity, and love.

I am contemplating this loss of expression because I just discovered that January 8-14 is Universal Letter Writing Week.

I expected that the cynical among us might say that this event is just another transparent attempt of greedy greeting card companies to separate us from our thinning funds. But, I am not talking about buy a card that will say it for us. I'm imploring us to slow down, get a cup of tea, take out a lovely sheet of paper, an ink pen that scrolls,  and put our feelings and thoughts into words, and our words onto papier.

I'm suggesting we reinstitute time for reflection, introspection, feeling, and expression by making space in our lives for the entire intimate experience of letter-writing. This week, honor your relationship with a loved one by writing a personal letter. These days a letter is a priceless gift.

The "R" word

January 1: I recite my New Year's resolutions.


February 1: I renege upon my New Year's resolutions.


March 1: I reconsider the New Year's resolutions.

April1: I reword the New Year's resolutions.


May 1: I ratchet up my energy to kick some raunchy resolution-ass.


June 1: I ridicule myself for not making steady progress on the resolutions.

July 1: I renounce myself.


August 1: I reject my resolutions.


September 1: I resolve to try again.

October 1: I resuscitate my New Year's resolutions.  

November 1: I renew my commitment to my New Year's resolutions.

December 1: I romanticize the efforts I made to accomplish my resolutions.


Wow, YaYa: That's really rucked up!

New Year, New Blog Plans

Dear Readers: As I finish this year with my 25th blog entry, I want to thank all of you for your faithful readership and insightful comments. I have enjoyed writing my life stories for you, as I knew I would. The unexpected surprise for me has been the comments that so many of you have written. You have shared deeply and thoughtfully, and I am delighted by the dialog that has begun between so many of you.

In the New Year, I hope you will share my blog address: www.myseatonthebeach.blogspot.com with friends and family. In the coming year, I plan to continue to write about mental health issues, divorce recovery, creativity, spirituality, and love!

Please continue to write and even suggest blog topics. Also, if anyone wants to serve as a guest blogger, let me know.

Desiderata--Happy Holidays and A Peaceful New Year!

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be
greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career
however humble;
it is a real possession in the
changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you
to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit
to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham,
drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

                                      By Max Ehrmann

The Message in the Bottle

Two years ago, on my 53rd birthday, I took off my wedding band. It was a man’s wedding band: gold with a gold and copper strand (appearing pink) intertwined with a gold and bronze strand (appearing green) down the middle of the ring. Chaz had the same band, three sizes larger.

 I wanted the man’s band. It had more heft than the typical woman’s delicate ring. I was making a weighty commitment and the size of that band seemed symbolic of the stoutness of my devotion.

For the next thirteen years, I only took the ring off when I wanted to scratch an itch underneath it. Then the day arrived when it was no longer appropriate to wear. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back!

So what to do with the ring?

I’d like to say that originally I sought an honorable method of disposing of it. But no, I took the mad woman route at first. I tried to burn it in a cauldron with thirteen years worth of anniversary , birthday, and no-special-occasion cards! (Did I really think I could destroy gold with the heat of a match? Or was I trying to transmute it based on the intensity of my ire?)

Next I tried to pawn it…or at least find a jeweler who would be willing to transform it into another piece of jewelry. No such luck. The braided segments of gold mixed with other metals made the ring unlikely for any other use.

Clearly the time was not right to dispose of the symbol of my marriage because no viable option was coming to mind. So, I decided to sit with the ring, and the betrayal, pain, and loss it represented, until I could find a way to break through to a place where I could let it go with love.

I purchased a gold bird’s nest in which to place the ring, covered it up with gold confetti hearts for another year, and let it rest amidst a stack of books and articles espousing the virtues of a spiritual divorce.

When I turned 54, I revisited the ring question. A year had past, yet I had not received any guidance from my Higher Power about what to do with the ring. I purchased a heart-shaped alabaster  box, with a dove on the lid, and placed the band there for safe keeping. In the meantime, I set about collecting photos from my marriage, cutting them into teeny-weeny pieces, and burning them in the fireplace!

My divorce was finalized on February 14 of this year—Valentine’s Day. (How bizarre is that?) In the ensuing months, I have continued to do the very personal work of letting go: experiencing the grief, accepting the reality, feeling the loss, and trusting that my Higher Power is in control and everything is working out as it should.

The hardest part? Forgiving Chaz…and myself… for …everything. (Honestly, I think I will be recycling through that stage a number of times before I am completely through the process.)

Yet, when my 55th birthday rolled around this year, the perfect answer to the ring dilemma presented it self. I realized I needed to give the pain, the regret, the sadness to My Mother, the Ocean. Yes! Water, the symbol of purification. Stop trying to burn everything, YaYa. Give it to the ocean.

So last Saturday morning, I awakened early, and took the ring, a jar, and a pink index card to the lighthouse. I thanked the Goddess for all that I had learned in my marriage. I asked her to take from me the sting of divorce. And I rejoiced in the new life and new love that is opening up before me like a flower in bloom.

I wrote an invocation on the card, scrolled it into the jar along with the ring, tightened the lid, and flung it into the ocean.

Now, a week later, I wish I could add an addendum to the message in the bottle. It would read: “It is not physical transformation nor transmutation that is necessary for healing. What we need to heal is an experience of spiritual transcendence.”

Advent Star

My birthday is tomorrow. I was born on the second Sunday of Advent, the day on which the afternoon Christmas Pageant service was traditionally scheduled. My mother, Marion, and her best friend, Jane, were on their way to the 4:30 p.m. service when I made my intentions known. Apparently, I was in a hurry to get the holidays underway.

As the story goes, the two young women briefly debated whether to go to church and sing some of their favorite carols before going to the hospital. They wisely by-passed St. Peter’s Episcopal Church and continued on to the other side of town to All Souls Hospital. It wasn’t long before I commenced my joyful noise. My mother still tells with amazement that she was only in labor with me for a half-an- hour.

Just this morning she reminisced, “You were in a real hurry to get here, and when you arrived, you were so at peace…a sweet lovely baby. You only cried  a little bit, and then you seemed captivated by everything going on around you.”

Her friend Jane later became my Godmother, and it was she who, when I turned 30, recounted the day of my birth as if it were a fairytale. It was my turn to be amazed. How often had I been an angel in the Christmas pageant? How many times over my lifetime had I sung myself into tears with my rendition of “Away in the Manger” and “Silent Night.”

But not until the night Jane gifted me with her version of my birth did I understand I was born on what had become one of my most favorite days of the Christian Advent calendar.

Jane said she and my mother sang verses of “O Come All Ye Faithful” between contractions. ("O Come All Ye Faithful!") It tickles me to think that the carol I so love actually invited me out of the womb, and I responded with a big swooshing “Yes!”

The Darkest Days of the Year

The days of December, especially those before December 21st, are the shortest days of the year; the nights leading up to the Winter Solstice, the darkest.

For those of us who are circadian rhythm- and/or serotonin level-sensitive to the absence or presence of natural light, the winter holiday season can be tricky to negotiate. Just when everyone else seems to be cheery and festive, we descend into a funk. Socializing becomes agonizing, and our energy becomes extinct.

This is especially distressing for me because my birthday is in early December. As the date approaches, family and friends will ask optimistically: "What are your plans for your birthday? How are you going to celebrate?"

"Celebrate?" I want to growl. " I just want to slumber! Why do we always have to celebrate?"


Before I learned about SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) I thought I was just a bear hiding out in a human body. Why, I would wonder, do I want to hibernate from Halloween through March?  Why do I become apathetic, fatigued, irritable, lethargic, and just downright anti-social when everyone else is kicking into high-gear?

According to Dr. Richard Friedman, author of an article on SAD in today's New York Times: "As daylight wanes, millions begin to feel depressed, sluggish and socially withdrawn. They also tend to sleep more, eat more and have less sex. By spring or summer the symptoms abate, only to return the next autumn."

Traditionally, SAD has been treated with psychotherapy and/or antidepressants, or a wait-it-out-until- spring "white knuckling." But there are alternative therapies that work as well.

If you struggle with SAD, you do not  have to wait for spring and summer to feel better. “Bright light in the early morning is a powerful, fast and effective treatment for seasonal depression,” said Dr. Norman E. Rosenthal,  a professor of clinical psychiatry at the Georgetown Medical School and author of “Winter Blues” (Guilford, 1998). “Light is a nutrient of sorts for these patients.”

According to Michael Terman, director of the Center for Light Treatment and Biological Rhythms at the Columbia University Medical School, people are most responsive to light therapy early in the morning, just when melatonin secretion begins to wane, about eight to nine hours after the nighttime surge begins.

If SAD sends you spiraling into the winter doldrums, try some of the following techniques:

Extend each day through the use of artificial sunlight. The standard course is 30 minutes of fluorescent soft-white light at 10,000 lux a day. (Shop for full-spectrum lights.) According to Dr. Friedman, the effects of light therapy are fast, usually four to seven days, compared with antidepressants which can take four to six weeks to work.

Use artificial bedroom lights. These help people who are suffering with insomnia and severe depression. Commercially available, these lights are set to simulate dawn, automatically going from dim lighting to bright, white light every morning.

Sit near a window. Move yourself close to a window and look outside for 15-minutes at a time, 3-times daily. You could sit near the window that gets the brightest  morning light while you eat breakfast, write out your to-do list, or read the morning paper.  If you work in an office, you could ask for your desk to face a window. If you work at home, you have many opportunities to "follow the sun."


(If you want to understand the concept of following the sun, just watch an in-door cat for a full day.
A cat will always find the spot on the rug where there is a circle of sun, and there you will find her until the sun moves. That's her sign to get up, stretch, and move to the next sun splotch.)


Spend at least one hour outdoors each day. Try to get in an half-an-hour in the early morning, and another half-an-hour in the early afternoon. This remedy is worth getting up an hour earlier.

Don't isolate from your family and friends. Pace yourself. Perhaps you won't accept all invitations this holiday season, but you'll be up for some. Try scheduling outdoor activities in the mid-day, and increase physical activities like walking, cross-country skiing, and skating. Invite your loved ones to join you.

Try not to get discouraged. Remember, after the winter solstice, each day gets a bit longer until the summer solstice in mid-June, when we celebrate the longest day of the year.

It's all cyclical.

Counting My Blessings

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow. --Melody Beattie

I am not one who takes her inspiration from one-hour television dramas; but two years ago, it was a rerun of ER which lit my dark path through to the next phase of my life.

I was facing my first Thanksgiving without Chaz, who had walked away from our marriage three months earlier. I was still in shock: depressed, despondent, and discombobulated. We had started negotiating around the communal property of the marriage that once had held our dreams but now lay in shambles, and things were not looking good.

We had agreed not to hire lawyers and litigate, but rather we chose to mediate our divorce, a fitting choice for two people who had met and fallen in love while serving as community mediators in San Francisco fifteen years earlier.

At the start of the process, a friend warned me: “Marriage is about love; divorce is about money. Get a lawyer.”  Everyone said: “Get a good lawyer.”

I said no. I didn’t want to participate in a hostile divorce. I wanted a “spiritual divorce” as spelled out by Debbie Ford, author a book of the same name. I wanted to walk resolutely through the fire of anger, grief, acceptance, and onto gratitude and liberation.

“You what?” my friends exclaimed.  “You know YaYa,” chuckled one of my closest confreres, Father Charles. “She’s always got to be so spiritual,” he laughed. (And this, from a priest!)

One meeting into the mediation process and it was clear Chaz was going for the jugular. California divorce law allows for the 50-50 split of communal property. Chaz wanted half of my retirement, half of our savings, half of my TSA (a tax deferred account), alimony, and he even pursued stocks that I had brought into our marriage, but never commingled.


Was I naïve? Was I crazy? Should I fight? Should I fold? Can I trust my own counsel? Should I follow my heart? Damn, trust my heart? Look at where my heart had brought me thus far.

Then, one afternoon, submerged in my funk, I was mindlessly flipping through television channels, only pausing long enough on each station to determine that its contents was of no interest to me, when I chanced upon a scene at the end of this particular ER program.

Two doctors, (I don’t even know the characters names) are sitting on a bench outside of the hospital. The two have been discussing what I can only guess was some type of trauma that one of the doctors had experienced, when the consoling member of the pair asked: “What if this didn’t happen to you, but, it happened for you?”

The experience of hearing those few words was like sitting in the optometrist’s chair as she slips different lens in and out of the heavy frame, trying to decipher exactly what is the proper prescription for your particularly challenged sight.

“No, this one is fuzzier than the last one.”
“Yes, this one is a little clearer.”
“No, this one is not quite as sharp.”
“Wait! Wait a minute! Now I can see clearly!”


A number of years earlier, I had entered therapy during a crisis in my personal life. My loving, kind, maternal therapist told me, after only one session: “You, my dear, are entering a phase of life I like to call ‘re-membering.’ You are about to go in search of, find, and re-member parts of your lost self. When you finish, you may not recognize the person you have become."


With a slight shift of my lens, I saw that this divorce experience was just one piece, albeit one very painful piece, of a much larger picture of my life. I had to trust the invisible hand that was rearranging the pieces. I was called to endure the dismemberment of this aspect of my life in order to create a more whole soul.

As I sit here on the eve of this Thanksgiving holiday, counting my blessings, I realize the need to be thankful for the trials and tribulations of life. They, too, can be transformed into blessings. “…for count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing this, that the testing of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, lacking nothing." --James 1:2-3

Chaz did receive 50% of the communal property, and he was awarded an alimony allotment, though it was for much less than he originally asked.

I have just finished paying the first year of alimony and I’m grateful I have been able to do so without extreme financial hardship. I am thankful for all of the support of my family and friends during the past two years. I am eternally grateful for the new me I am becoming, and for the gift of a new, precious love.

But most of all, I am thankful for the certain assurance that the Goddess Will Provide!


Gratitude ... goes beyond the "mine" and "thine" and claims the truth that all of life is a pure gift. In the past I always thought of gratitude as a spontaneous response to the awareness of gifts received, but now I realize that gratitude can also be lived as a discipline. The discipline of gratitude is the explicit effort to acknowledge that all I am and have is given to me as a gift of love, a gift to be celebrated with joy. --Henri J. M. Nouwen

Staying Awake in the Moment

" The secret of beginning a life of deep awareness and sensitivity lies in our willingness to pay attention. Our growth as conscious, awake human beings is marked not so much by grand gestures and visible renunciations as by extending loving attention to the minutest particulars of our lives.

"Every relationship, every thought, every gesture is blessed with meaning through the wholehearted attention we bring to it. In the complexities of our minds and lives we easily forget the power of attention, yet without attention we live only on the surface of existence.

"It is just simple attention that allows us truly to listen to the song of a bird, to see deeply the glory of an autumn leaf, to touch the heart of another and be touched. We need to be fully present in order to love a single thing wholeheartedly. We need to be fully awake in this moment if we are to receive and respond to the learning inherent in it."

    -   Christina Feldman and Jack Kornfield, Stories of the Spirit, Stories of the Heart

Hail to the Chief

Have you ever taken one of those endless personality tests that asks:

Q: If you were a cat with nine lives, what would you do with the other eight?
Q: If you won three million dollars in a lottery, what would you do with the last million?
Q: If you had a theme song that played every time you entered and exited a room, what would it be?  (Lately, I’ve been mentally gliding through space on Jill Scott’s “Living My Life Like It's Golden.”)

Well, as of January 20, 2009, when he is sworn in as the 44th President of the United States, Barack Obama will have Thee Theme Song, the presidential anthem: “Hail to the Chief.” This song will accompany him at almost every public appearance for the next four years. That’s mind-blowing!

The melody itself is majestic, but the words are rarely sung.
Oh, would I like to hear them sung on that historic day!

    Hail to the Chief we have chosen for the nation,
    Hail to the Chief! We salute him, one and all.
    Hail to the Chief, as we pledge cooperation
    In proud fulfillment of a great, noble call.

    Yours is the aim to make this grand country grander,
    This you will do, that's our strong, firm belief.
    Hail to the one we selected as commander,
    Hail to the President! Hail to the Chief!

(The lyrics were written by Albert Gamse and set to James Sanderson's music.)