Waking Up for Life

I was recently invited to write an article for my alma mater’s literary magazine. Eleventh Hour Literary is a new publication by Binghamton University, featuring creative writing, poetry, and other forms of art. I was given the theme of the rejections that creatives often face, particularly in the publishing process, and what my experience has been with meeting rejection.

My piece evolved into a narrative of the various, perhaps more subtle ways I experienced rejection .…

What to do when a dark inner weather system moves in and inhabits what is otherwise a relatively peaceful, sunny interior life? When sullenness moves through the veins like molasses and veils the eyes with shadows? When the heart becomes stubborn with grumpiness, and the shoulders slump like a sloth has taken up residence? When all the fun things feel like too great an effort, and the pull to curl up in a blanket is too much to resist? When I question everything that I love doing: really? Whatever made me think I even want to do these things in the first place?

Even though I know this state is temporary and that all things change eventually, I tap my fingers with impatience and annoyance as it lingers longer than I like. As if I had eaten something sour, and now its bitterness is stuck in my system until it works its way out.

Where did this come from?…

It seems I am in the life phase where aging is an almost daily topic in conversations, in what my social media feeds produce for me, and what my own body says to me. Although we begin the aging process from the moment we are born, it seems far off until we start to reach our “use by” years. Close on the heels of aging concerns is an increased awareness of our mortality. We can be sure of these things: we will age, we will get sick and injured, and we will all die one day. These are the fundamental and ubiquitous characteristics of being alive.

This sounds so dreary. But it doesn’t need to.…

Nearly all the people I talk with, the groups I am part of, and much of what I read, are talking and writing and thinking about what to do about our world. About our country. The chaos taking place no longer feels like a partisan subject; it is and will impact everyone in one way or another. I know there are people who think what our current leadership is doing is good and right and just. I am not one of them. I am very worried about how many people will be hurt in deep and irreversible ways.  It looks like it may be millions of people, and not only in the United States, but around the world.

I think there is a fundamental confusion about what the elements of a ‘good life’ are…

January 27, 2025: Today, I turn 70. It brings so many thoughts, reflections, feelings, and gratitude Here, in Sanibel, on a gloriously sunny day, watching the sun sparkle on the waves as they roll to shore, I am on my knees in awe, contentment, and devotion.

Just this moment of grace and glory is enough. It is beyond ‘enough’; it is abundant with beauty. This moment is nature at its most bounteous, life at its most generous.

This fragile island is much like life itself—beautiful and bountiful yet subject to the impersonal laws of nature, and it can come to an unwelcome end at any time. Two and a half years ago, Hurricane Ian came to this area and wreaked havoc, destruction, and devastation that many people and businesses, trees, animals, and vegetation have not recovered from. It all changed in a flash, not unlike the recent fires in LA…

I didn’t expect to have a baby so late in life. But in some ways, writing and publishing my memoir Light in Bandaged Places (published September 5, 2024)is the culmination of gestating a lifetime of struggle, learning, and growth. I mention both the writing and the publishing because these turn out to be two significantly different experiences.

Many people ask me if writing the book was cathartic. I always pause at this question because I think the expectation is that it was. But for me, it was more of a creative unfolding. Delightful, in that the creative process is joyful. If anything was cathartic, perhaps it was the post-publication speaking experience because giving a literal voice to my history is part of what heals. Attending to it, holding it with care and love is what heals—offering it so that anyone who might resonate with its themes and be seen and helped is what heals.

This week, I have the privilege of living in a small studio apartment overlooking the ocean. Only a small, windy road and a few feet of scrub brush and sand separate me from the ocean. This is along a stretch of the Sanibel-Captiva Road, where the sand and water seem to come right up to the road, and you can see the expanse of water and sky for miles. It’s open and spacious, and on a sunny day, it sparkles with white sand and sea foam. I’ve always wanted to stay here.

This apartment is on the third floor and has a balcony overlooking this display of natural and wild beauty. A tropical storm passed through this week, bringing high winds and pelting rain. Going outside was impossible …

Last year, I wrote about how my front lawn embarrassed me with all its weeds and disarray. I wanted to fix it and replace it with healthy grass. Many of you kindly educated me (I needed it!) about how harmful grass lawns are and how my dandelions and weeds were good for pollination. I considered hardscape alternatives, which boggled my mind, and my overwhelm led me nowhere. This spring, as I gaze upon my riot of dandelions and weeds, I have a very different feeling. No embarrassment. No shame. I am now fond of what I used to call a disaster and hope the birds and bees stop by and do their health-promoting business.

What really interests me about this change of mind is just that – how our beliefs and the stories we tell ourselves shape our actions and moods. What was once shame is now pride and delight. Nothing changed outside; the weeds are still there, just as they were last year. What did change was the story I now have in my mind about the value and goodness of those same weeds. I swapped one story for another, one I like much better. And still, the weeds are just the weeds.

Here’s another ordinary life example of the mind’s power to determine our well-being …

Sometimes, I want to crawl down so deep into my being to that place where everything stops, and it’s quiet and still. The swirl slows, and there is pure rest. I want to live in and from that place, which is the center of my being.

I also want to live in the swirl of joys and sorrows that is ordinary, miraculous, beautiful, fascinating everyday life. I love my life, every corner of it, and I live in an ocean of joy and gratitude every day.

How to hold this balance – stillness or swirl? …

I have to keep reminding myself that we humans travel between states of contraction and expansion all the time. In nature, we see Fall and Winter are times of contraction; Spring and Summer are times of expansion. Just because I find myself in prolonged contraction right now doesn’t have to mean something is wrong.

It might be that my body is asking for some attention to its health. Or maybe it's my mind or my heart asking for care —most likely all of them since they travel together.

My prolonged fatigue, difficulty finding my internal energy and focus, and body aches snuck up on me—seemingly out of the blue. But if I look closely, it’s not really out of the blue…