Seeds and WeedsI went to a support group that is focused on exploring grief through creativity. There is homework. Being an ex-teacher I can relate to homework. I take it seriously. I know my creative ideas don’t sprout from a vacuum. I need outside sources to spur me on. The inspiration for the homework was “Doubt Seeds Our Weeds.” We could interpret it in whatever way we wanted using whatever process we wanted, including art, crafts, writing, photography, gardening, anything that feels creative. I chose to write a blog entry. Sometimes I struggle with coming up with an idea for my blog so this is a little gift. Let's see where it takes me. Right away it made me think about my garden and the struggles I have been having. More than two weeks ago I planted pole bean and pumpkin seeds. So far the total number of sprouts that have come up is ONE. Obviously I did something wrong. Why is it that weeds need absolutely no attention to grow but my carefully tended veggies are not coming up. Gardening is not for sissies. As with so many other things in life, you have to be prepared for failure. There are definitely some metaphors here - seeds, planting, growth, FAILURE. I hate failure. I hate making mistakes. My whole life has been an exercise in avoiding mistakes. As a result I have avoided doing risky things and things I know I’m not good at. Thankfully I have friends who have gently shoved me into experiences that I normally would have avoided like the plague, including taking belly dancing classes and running class five rapids in a rubber raft. I guess I could say my friends are seed planters, but rather than sewing seeds of doubt they have brought me hope and encouragement. They have given me so many opportunities to grow that I never would have experienced without their help. Now, about weeds. I think the idea of weeds in the prompt was that they are negative things. I certainly don’t like to battle them in my garden. On the other hand, weeds are the hardiest of plants. They will come up anywhere, including cracks in the sidewalk. They have adapted to the worst conditions and even thrive in them. And they can be beautiful. People go to the desert in the spring just to see the wildflowers in bloom. I feel a connection with the weeds’ struggle to survive. A big part of my life has been learning to adapt to difficult situations. I like the idea that life’s challenges are an opportunity to grow. I feel that the death of my sister is one of those instances. It has motivated me to reach out for support which has opened up the possibilities to meet new people and experience things I might not have done. Keeping in mind that my gut reaction is to avoid risky situations, my sister's loss has motivated me to live my life and not listen to that inner voice that is afraid to try new things. I know Lin would love to see me sprouting like a wildflower. We spurred each other on so many times. If one of us was reluctant to try something new, the other would provide the nudge to take on the challenge. She was not only my sister, she was my best friend, and like my other friends she was a seed planter. She helped me evolve so that I could become stronger and more resilient even in the toughest of times, and she inspired me to see my own beauty in the same way I see it in weeds. It is their struggle that has made them beautiful.
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I was going to write an upbeat blog about watching Tudor Monastery Farm on PBS but I fell into a hole. It’s the deep dark ugly hole of loss. I don’t want to go there but I couldn’t help myself. Most days I feel OK. I think I am over this loss thing and then it sneaks up on me unexpectedly and gives me a sucker punch. I knew there was something wrong yesterday when I stopped eating vegetables. It was a defiant action. My mind was saying I’m going to do what I want, not what I should. Hot dogs sounded good. I had an overwhelming urge to cook up a box of macaroni and cheese. Broccoli and salad just seemed like a road too far. I do recognize that this is very infantile behavior and that I was eating over feelings but I didn’t recognize what the feelings were. This morning it hit me that it was loss, that empty feeling that no food can fix. I so wanted to share my discovery of the PBS Farm series with my sister. I have watched all the versions I can find, Tudor Monastery Farm, Victorian Farm, Edwardian Farm, Wartime Farm. It’s realty TV featuring the adventures of three archeologists/historical researchers who recreate farm life from the past. It’s British. It involves people dressing up in costumes and living like they were time machined into the past. My sister would have loved it. We could have compared notes on which version we liked the most and how we admired the people who were willing to give up modern conveniences to actually experience history in real time. We could have talked about how Dad’s experiences during the depression, when his family moved out into the boonies and lived off the land with no running water or electricity, were similar. We could have planned our next trip to some place that has historical reenactors. I don’t know if I ever even want to take a trip again if it means not being able to share it with her. ![]() The idea that I would deny myself something that I love because of this feeling of loss scares me. And the reality is I will continue to watch historical TV shows and take trips even if I can’t share them with my sister. I know I need to have joy in my life, but I hate, hate, hate the idea that I will never be able to share these things with her again. I guess this is the designated anger part of grief. This is a part of me that usually stays comfortably tucked into my subconscious not laid bare for anyone else to see. So is that angry, whiny, infantile side of me a “good” thing? Is it better for those feelings to be out in the open? I am certainly tired of walking around in a semi-daze, experiencing life through a fog of sadness. Not that I wasn’t capable of doing that even before my sister died. It is just a much bigger part of my psyche right now. I can’t be in a constant state of euphoria either. I did some research on Ruth Goodman, one of the historians in the Farm Series. She is one of the originators of the shows and spent time as a Tudor reenactor long before reality TV was a reality. She has written many books and done interviews sharing her passion for exploring history in this way, by actually living it. She is so perky and inspiring. You can tell she actually enjoys dyeing fabric with plants mixed with urine and cooking meals on an open hearth! She is doing something she loves. I really need to keep doing the things I love. I know that is the way to get out of this hole and feel whole. One of the ironies of dealing with my sister’s death is that the things that are healing, like talking to people and writing, are also the things that make me the saddest. Even when I think I have a grip on it I find myself crying unexpectedly in the middle of a phone call or while writing about a memory I shared with my sister.
I had a wonderful talk yesterday with my sister-in-law who had a completely different perspective on this. She didn’t look at crying as being sad. It’s hard for me to get my head around this but I can see the value in it. I look at sadness as a bad thing, something to be avoided. It’s not going to stop me from continuing to reach out to people or write, but it sure doesn’t make me just throw myself into it with abandon. I don’t look forward to doing something that’s going to make me feel like a wrung out sponge. On the other hand I am really aware that when the tears start flowing it is a sign that my true heart has been touched, that I have reached a point of honesty that is deep and powerful, and that it is healing as well. It’s not just a “getting the feelings out in the open” thing and it certainly doesn’t keep me from crying more the next time I reach out for my phone or pick up my iPad. It is like opening up my soul, which can be a sad and scary place. It can also be a joyful and happy place. God forbid that I would let the idea of feeling sad or afraid keep me from finding my happiness and joy. I think that is where the healing lies, in embracing this confusing dichotomy. The other day I was doing my zoom exercise class. The instructor had chosen gospel music as the theme for that day. As soon as Allyson Krause started singing “Down to the River to Pray” the tears started to come. I was so glad my image was only a small box on the screen. I doubt that anyone noticed and I was literally able to “go with the flow.” I could see my sister wearing her “starry crown” surrounded by angels. It made me happy and sad at the same time. My loss is total and final. My sister died two days ago. It was too soon. I didn’t have a chance to see her one more time. There are questions in my head about events we experienced together that will go unanswered. My heart is broken.
When my Dad died I had some experiences where other people saw him or felt him after he was gone. I was skeptical and jealous at the same time. Why was he contacting the custodian at his apartment or a total stranger in my support group but not me? I wanted to dream about him and the dreams didn’t come although now, 6 years later, they happen all the time. I wondered whether Lin would try to contact me. Was she checking in with my neighbors? Was she visible to my cat? Was she even able to do what Dad did? I wondered. . . and then I saw the turkey. I was doing my evening walk around the neighborhood and had stopped to admire the paint color on one of the houses. When I turned around a very large wild turkey strolled across the sidewalk in front of me. Granted there are a lot of wild animals that cruise through my neighborhood, like raccoons, skunks, squirrels, rats. However, in the 37 years I have lived here I have NEVER seen a turkey, except for the times I pulled one out of the oven on Thanksgiving. He seemed quite comfortable, strolling along at an unhurried pace. I whipped out my phone and started snapping pictures. I didn’t want to scare him away but he did not seem to be concerned about a little old lady cautiously following behind him. After I had duly recorded him for posterity I continued my walk. I was brimming with the realization of what a wonderful experience I had had. The thought crossed my mind that I might have missed seeing the turkey if I had listened to that inner voice that was balking at going out for a walk. It occurred to me that it could be Linda. Maybe she sent the turkey as a reward for taking care of myself by going for a walk. Or not. Lin wasn’t particularly attached to turkeys. There was no mind bending experience with turkeys we had shared. We didn’t agree to “look for the turkey” before she died as proof that she was communicating from the afterlife. What we did do was support and encourage each other. Even if she didn’t send it, I felt supported and encouraged by my turkey experience. I put a lot of store in serendipity. When something happens in a way that I feel it was just meant to be I take it seriously. Seeing that turkey was so surprising and uplifting it took me away from my deep sadness for a while. It doesn’t make any difference whether or not it was a sign from my sister. It made me happy and I am sure it would have made her happy too. So I took a little break from my blog (like two years) but I finally felt moved, by forces unknown, to write again. As I get older I find I am dealing with loss more and more. It’s so frustrating. Today I have spent hours looking for some old photos I put away for safe keeping and can’t seem to remember where that “safe” place is. Athough memory loss is certainly one of my biggest issues, it’s not just my memory I am losing. I’m losing my mobility and sense of balance. I’m losing my hair and I didn’t have a whole heck of a lot to begin with. My hearing and vision are under assault and I’m losing my bladder control.
All of these pale, of course, against the loss of the people in my life. Somewhere in my youth, when I imagined what it would be like to be old, I didn’t really comprehend that all those people who mean so much to me were not immortal, or that their loss could be both instant and slow and painful. I’m losing my sister. We are twins and have know each other since our time in utero, so this is the longest connection I have ever had. She fell and has a head injury that has left her with a form of dementia. She knows her family and remembers a lot of things from long ago but is so confused about the present. Although she fell many times I had only worried about the possibility of her breaking an arm or a leg. I never realized that a head injury was one of the possibities or that it could be so devastating. The worst part is that she knows her brain is not functioning properly and she gets anxious and down on herself, thinking there is something she can do to change and go back to that place where normal life was not confusing and overwhelming. There is nothing I can say or do. I tell her it’s OK and I love her just the way she is but she doesn’t really believe me. We had planned to spend our retiring years taking trips across the country to see each other and explore places we had never been. We used to talk on the phone every day. Now I’m lucky if we can do a video call once a week. I am careful not to talk too much about the present. The past is a more comfortable place for her. She actually remembers I lot of names and places I don’t. She was always good at that. We sing Beatles songs and songs we learned when we were in the 6th grade chorus. That is one of the best ways we can connect because she remembers them well and doesn’t make any judgements about herself and her lack of memory. Which brings me back to the idea of being a “Loser.” I know that self judgement thing well. We both grew up with low self esteem, blaming ourselves for things we didn’t have a lot of control over. It is deeply rooted in my soul and obviously in my sister’s soul. Also deeply rooted for me is a desire to “fix” everyone and everything which, of course, I can’t. So I am doing the best I can, reaching out in those video phone calls, letting her know I care and occasionally sharing a song or a memory. It’s the best way I know to not feel so lost. One of my friends gave me a blueberry bush when my Dad died, over three years ago. This year, along with my two other blueberry bushes, it has gone crazy producing berries. I haven’t even fed them the acid fertilizer they love this year. For some reason they have just gone berserk. My friend knew that blueberries always bring up Dad memories for me. Picking them was one of the things we did as a family. We would go on a day trip looking for places to picnic, hunt for agates, and pick berries. Dad loved to explore the gravel roads of northern Minnesota and he knew how to spot a likely blueberry patch even from a moving car. As we set out on foot he would point out where bears had slobbered on the bushes and remind us to make lots of noise to keep the bears away. Evidently they weren’t likely to sneak up on noisy kids. We never actually saw any bears.
After Dad died I had some unsettling experiences where people told me they had felt his presence. The custodian who cleaned his apartment felt a touch on his arm that he was sure was Dad. A total stranger at a support group I went to came up to me after a meeting where I had shared about my Dad’s death. She asked me if “plaid” meant anything to me. Dad had several wool plaid shirts that he wore all the time. She told me that he was there and he wanted me to know that he was in a safe and comfortable place. I was flabbergasted. I am not one of those people who believe in that kind of other worldly stuff but I was kind of mad that Dad was obviously checking in with other people but not with me. I had not felt a touch on my arm or noticed his plaid shirted presence in the room. I wasn’t even dreaming about him, although I wanted to. Now I dream about him and my Mom all the time. My older sister who died in 1990 is in my dreams too as well as my twin sister who is still alive and well, living in Michigan. I love those dreams. We are usually all together on some family adventure, Howard and Inez and their three girls. The reality of my family was not always fun and pleasant and wonderful, but my dreams often are. I’m happy that I remember the good times. Yesterday morning I made my usual bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. I cook the old fashioned kind, not the instant pre-cooked variety. My Dad and I agreed that the instant stuff was for the birds. I like to put fruit in the bowl first. I was out of blueberries so I cut up some strawberries. Then I remembered my blueberry plants were producing like crazy and I went out and picked some from my garden. When I went back into the kitchen my bowl of strawberries was topped with three big blueberries. Where the heck did they come from? There were no blueberries in my kitchen when I went out to pick them. I tried to make sense of the random berries. Did I have a senior moment and put them there myself? I surely don’t remember doing anything of the kind. Was this Dad, finally trying to catch my attention? I called my sister. She agreed it was a Dad experience. I called a friend. She listened politely but it was clear she thought somehow I had put the three blueberries in the bowl myself. Now I’m afraid to tell anyone else. If I had been told this story I probably would be thinking more like my friend than my sister. I have contemplated this experience and decided that like any spiritual idea there is a leap of faith that has to happen in order to believe in something beyond our rational selves. It’s a conscious choice. It might be crazy but I choose to believe those three blueberries were a message from my Dad, whether or not I may or may not have put them there myself. Hi Dad! |
Leslie Masona woman in search of her post-retirement future Guess what! By subscribing, you get notices about the latest Little Old Lady with Cats posts sent to your mailbox!
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