Revise your story

December 9, 2015March 21, 2016 / Sheila / 6 Comments

I’ve written about finding myself in a hole, here, feeling the darkness, and climbing out, step by step. Some of the progress was circumstantial: my situation changed, and with those changes, my outlook looked up.

But it wasn’t all that tidy. Long before the big changes occurred, I began stepping toward righting myself. Why? Because at the time, I didn’t know how, or if, life would hand me the turnaround I wanted, needed.

And if not? Then what?

I couldn’t stay where I was. I began the trip back to normal without knowing what life would look like. I just knew I couldn’t stay in the hole, in the dark.

These are the next things I did, after recognizing I had to begin the climb on my own. If you find yourself in a similar hole, maybe some of these steps will help. Nothing here is magic, or ground-breaking. But when I’m struggling, it helps to have a path laid in front of me. That’s all I’m offering here…just outlining steps so you don’t have to do it yourself. No right, no wrong, just suggestions.

Make a plan, whether big or small. To come out of the darkest time, I had to have a plan. I couldn’t be sure what I would do eventually, but I had to start working toward next. And that’s what I would suggest for anyone trying to see daylight. Whether you’re between jobs, relationships, coming out of depression, trying to adjust to a new place or time in life…make a plan.

But be easy on yourself. Recognize that when you’re in flux, a lot of what you’re working with may change. Will change.

When I find myself in disarray, I need to rebuild structure and order in my life. I like to set goals for myself, targets that are reachable, but nothing that demands action tomorrow. Time pressure isn’t helpful in a vulnerable state.

There are reasons for this. Setting goals that are a few weeks, or even months, in the distance, gives me something to work toward and plan for. But if you’re in a fragile place, you don’t need the pressure of immediacy. I’ve found this type of medium-range goal planning is comforting.

By putting my goals a few weeks out…or even a little longer, if that’s feasible…I give myself something positive to work toward, without stressing myself in the moment.

This type of planning allows time for other events/forces to unfold.

The last time I found myself in limbo, I did exactly this. I put some targets on a calendar and made a tentative plan, based on what I would do if…

If certain things worked out this way, then….

If things worked out that way, then….

By thinking through options and possibilities, I worked through scenarios that helped me plan.

Share your plans with a person or two you trust. Ask for feedback. Having someone think with you is helpful…helps you see possibilities you may be missing, and can be a reality check. This is especially important if you’re in unfamiliar life territory.

Write your goals. Make lists, keep a journal. Writing is good therapy, and putting plans down on paper or on screen will help you focus. It’s also useful to be able to look back, to see progress, or to remind yourself of thoughts or plans you lose sight of.

Mark any significant dates for the next year on your calendar, and use those as sign posts for progress, for interaction, for incentive. When you see a date on your calendar a couple of months out for meeting family, for attending a special event, for something you can be excited about, the calendar gives you hope. Don’t discount this as reason to get through the day, week, or month. Let your calendar be a daily reminder that life is happening all around you, and you have a part to play.

Decide what you want to change, and what you can change. Is it location? Job? Habits? Name the goals, then put realistic dates on your calendar…when will you achieve your goals? Or what stages will you mark as advancements? Or achievements?

Learn a new skill. Nothing boosts the ego and wakes up the mind like a challenge. This is a great way, and a focused way, to work toward life goals. Learning a new skill can help you step toward your goals. Join a class if possible. Leaning with a group is a good way to connect with kindred spirits, and can give you new sources of support.

I am sold on the power of doing something for someone less fortunate, or for a good cause. Nothing makes you feel better than contributing. Again, this will work only if you’re healthy enough in mind and body to get out and connect with others. Take this slow. Don’t overcommit your time, money, or self. If you have healing/growing/recovering to do, you need to protect yourself.

Find outlets for creativity, and for physical activity. You need to nurture your body and your spirit. Don’t neglect your need to be active, and to exercise your creativity. Whether you’re inspired to create, or driven to release your energy, you’ll benefit from movement and stimulus. Nothing is more deadly than sitting still and drowning in despair.

Find someone to be accountable to. You could make this a mutual thing, or just ask someone to provide this for you. Knowing that you’ve committed to sharing your progress will give you another incentive to make progress. Decide how often you’ll connect, and any other parameters you want to set. Be serious about accountability; it can be a wonderful aid to get you through difficult tasks.

If you can afford it, work with a life coach. Life coaches are not therapists. The function of a life coach is to help you find your voice and motivation, and to hold you accountable to the goals you set. In my opinion, you want someone who will hold a mirror to your life, and be a voice of encouragement. I would stay away from the drill sergeant type. You want someone who will be honest and firm with you, but you don’t need someone who will use guilt or other negative styles of communication.

I didn’t suffer with clinical depression, and I can’t address that condition. Clearly, individuals with mental health issues need more than a list of helpful suggestions to right themselves.

But you don’t have to be clinically depressed to struggle, to feel lost, to feel stuck, and sad, and down. That’s the mindset I’m addressing.

Even if you seek help from a coach or counselor, you have to begin with yourself. Recognizing you have to do something different, then taking the first small steps to begin…that’s the hardest part. Finding your resolve, getting off the sofa or out of the bed, beginning…

You can do it. Only you can do it.

I’m not a counselor, but I’ve been there, in the hole. I know what it’s like to sleep poorly, waking up with thoughts racing every hour or two, to dread going to work or getting out of the house because you feel like you have to put on “the face” of normalcy. I know finding the desire to do anything can seem like a mountain.

It is a mountain. But you can climb it. If you can’t find the heart to do it for yourself, find someone else who inspires you, or choose someone you want to inspire. Do it for your spouse, your kids, your legacy, if you can’t do it for yourself.

Sooner or later, you will be doing it for yourself. You will be inspired, and inspiring. You’ll have a story to share, a success to celebrate, and a renewed life.

No one can predict your outcome. No one else can write your story. Find your brave, even if it scares you. Especially if it scares you. Open up to those you trust. Give others opportunity to help, to support and encourage you.

Hear my voice, if you can. That’s one of my goals…I want my voice to be an encouragement. Not because I have it all figured out, but because I know how hard this is. Eventually, you’ll know you can do it, because others have done it. You can be strong, you’ll find your way. And in turn, you will be a voice of encouragement.

Each of us has a place, each story has value. If your story has derailed, dig deep. Begin your revision. This is my time, and this is your time. ~ Sheila

Other people are going to find healing in your wounds. Your greatest life messages and your most effective ministry will come out of your deepest hurts. ~ Rick Warren

View of the road

December 5, 2015March 21, 2016 / Sheila / 3 Comments

When I was a kid we did road trips. Lots and lots of road trips.

I mostly had my nose in a book on those journeys. My dad always had music on, my mom always brought snacks, and the kids brought books.

My dad loved national parks, and if our travels took us anywhere near a park, we had to stop.

Had to.

Driving anywhere can be an interesting experience if you’re paying attention.

But in those days I rarely looked up. I sat in the back seat, or even in the “way back” of the family station wagon. The view was mostly a sibling’s profile, also buried in a book. I remember my dad getting irritated with us, that we were missing the scenery he was so enchanted to see. He was hauling us all over the country, and we might as well have been at home.

Sometimes there’d be a sight to bring us to the surface, out of our respective novels, and we’d stare out the window at a passing scene, or get out of the car and troop into a national park headquarters, dutifully learning about the history or geography, or whatever made this particular spot noteworthy.

Now, a few decades later, I sit in the front. I never read. I mostly stare out at the landscape, passing by at 50, 60, or 70 miles an hour. Sometimes we pull over so I can snap a photo or two, or twenty. I’m always on the watch for a great diner, local color, a beautiful view, a charming town.

I love road trips.

Sometime between childhood and now I grew to appreciate the freedom and the variety of driving. I never get bored, and it almost doesn’t matter where we begin, or where we end. I just love the whole thing, from first to last.

I fly a lot these days, for work, and sometimes for pleasure. Sometimes the only way to get where I’m going is on a jet.

But if I have a choice? I’ll pick the road, every time. There’s nothing like it, and never will be. The great American love story is with the road, and I’m happy to be out there, wondering what’s around the next bend, where we’ll stop to eat, what new thing we’ll see.

It is an amazing country, and a gorgeous one.

Driving today, I thought about my dad. I wish I could tell him: I learned to look up. I learned to see what’s in front of me, to appreciate the beauty, the romance, the wonder of the road.

I think he’d smile, and be proud I finally got it.

Cautionary Tale

December 3, 2015March 21, 2016 / Sheila / 11 Comments

Driving through the mountain west, sun shining on sparkling snow, white contrasting with the grays and reds of mountain rock, I’m captivated.

I’m enchanted by beauty and nature, the privilege of seeing this land that’s so scarcely populated. The footprint of humanity is small here.

This is bliss, this cold December day a time of joy and sweetness.

A year ago I could not have imagined this day, full of light and companionship, easy silences punctuating quiet talk during the drive.

I thought today: if I could have known, a year ago, this day was coming, would it have made a difference? It would have made it easier to work though a hard time of life.

But maybe working through the hard time, with no certainty of good to come, made today possible?

I don’t know, can’t know, exactly what forces sculpted the days and weeks between last year and this. I know a little of the changes that occurred, that made a difference. But I don’t know all.

This is what I do know.

The hard times in life have purpose. Whatever the hardship is, working through it, surviving it, learning from it, gives rich color and depth to time that follows.

I haven’t experienced every sorrow life has to offer, thank God. But I’ve been through some of the fires. The fires taught me no life is immune or safe. Something touches each of us, either directly, or through someone we love.

The hard times taught me patience and perseverance. I learned to let time do some of the work for me.

I learned to face hard truths with honesty.

I learned to forgive myself and others for mistakes.

I learned to value the pain of others because of my pain. When you really understand the hurts and losses of life, your ability to empathize grows exponentially.

Last year was a year of loss, change, upheaval, conflict, depression, uncertainty.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve passed through such a season. Life has handed me other losses, taken my joy for a time.

And that is life. No one is immune.

I’m reminded, afresh, that we all weather seasons, and change.

Each time I’ve experienced a time of darkness, I’ve learned from it. It’s slow at first…whatever knocks you flat, takes you out, leaves you reeling…those forces don’t retreat easily.

Loss, death, illness, tragedy, conflict, displacement…there’s a continuum of pain, and ability to recover.

I couldn’t change the fact of my father’s death. I had to reach acceptance.

I was able to reclaim my marriage. I had to allow time for growth, and perspective, for healing.

This is my path, steps to return to joy.

Remember to breathe. It’s ok to grieve and to shut down for a time. But you must breathe, you must do a minimum to maintain your physical self, with rest, with food, with action.

As soon as you can, feed yourself hope. Since the beginning of people, hearts have broken, loss has devoured. You will likely recover, overcome whatever is hurting you. There are lives all around that testify to the power of the human spirit to survive, conquer, thrive. If others can do it, you can too. Tell yourself that. Say it even when you don’t believe it. Say it until you can believe it.

On days that you can’t do anything positive for yourself, at least do no harm. Don’t make big decisions, don’t rush into anything, don’t burn bridges today that you may need to cross next week.

Look for the unexpected. Each time I’ve experienced a trough of life, there’ve been good things come to me, unexpected lights to give me a path back to life. The unexpected may be a circumstance, an insight, a new friend…anything. But you have to be open enough to receive. Don’t block help or hope.

Forgive: yourself, others, mistakes, misunderstandings…get the negatives out. Holding it inside only hurts you. You don’t have to share with anyone else unless you choose. But even talking out loud, ranting in private, will give you release, and let you find the words you need to say. It gets easier with practice. If you can’t say the words, write them. Just get them out one way or another.

Be kind to yourself. Whatever you can do to soften and soothe and heal, do that. But, don’t take a positive and turn it to a negative…don’t comfort yourself with so much “comfort” food that you gain weight, or run up debt trying to buy your way to happiness. Keep your kindnesses positive.

Give yourself and the situation time. Lots of time, if you can. Time can’t heal everything. It can’t replace every loss, and it isn’t the cure for all illness. But it can do a lot, if you let it. Practice patience, with yourself, the circumstances, with others.

Make a promise to yourself. Promise you’ll learn from this, that you’ll be stronger and better for having this experience. Make sure you keep it.

Use your story. Your story will be a powerful way to connect with others going through a similar experience. And believe me, whatever you’re facing, someone else is facing too. You don’t have to share everything to share something. You’ll find solace and give it too, by opening up, when the time is right. Promise yourself that you’ll do what you can to add light, not dark, because you went through hardship.

Find something to be grateful for. Even the smallest thing you can name counts. Keep adding to your list. Find a beautiful image, a book, a song, a view, a friend, a pet, to focus on.

Don’t grow bitter. Bitterness poisons life, and nothing is worth that. If you’re mourning the loss of a loved one, honor them by returning to life. If you’re mourning something else in your life, honor yourself by refusing to give up. Know that one way or other, soon or later, you’ll sing again, be joyful again.

Seek professional help if you can’t find your way. It’s out there, and it will be worth it. Sometimes the best thing we do for ourselves is admit we can’t do it alone. That can be an act of bravery, and your first step away from the dark.

I had professional help this year, and it changed everything. You don’t have to commit to long term counseling or therapy to reap great reward. Sometimes you just need a jump start. Or if you need ongoing help, the sooner you begin, the better.

I’m thankful for the lessons learned and road traveled. And I look for ways to share, to give back. I’ve promised myself that good will come of my journey, and I mean to see that promise come true. It wasn’t my goal in life to be a cautionary tale, but it seems to be my fate.

Well, so be it. We give as we can, and from what we have. If I can help anyone by encouraging with my words, I’m content.

Mindful and grateful: Happy Thanksgiving!

November 26, 2015 / Sheila / 2 Comments

Gratitude is truly an amazing habit. The spirit of thankfulness works to soften and soothe, helps me see the good all around me.

Practicing gratitude, I am mindful.

Practicing mindfulness, I am grateful.

Today I’m thankful for the way life gives unexpected joys. I’m grateful for time with family and friends, health, enough work to stay busy, enough quiet time to find inspiration.

I’m thankful for for the steady presence of voices and faces in my life that enrich and encourage.

I’m thankful, as I cook in my son’s somewhat spartan kitchen, for the gifts of tradition, ritual, and surprise. Moving out of my comfort zone, living without all my stuff for the past year, has shown me that I can do all sorts of things, without the gadgets, without all the known and familiar.

What’s known are the faces, and the memories of place, and history. What’s familiar is the love, and the laughter.

The surprises sometimes come in the form of something forgotten…like a main ingredient to a once-a-year dish. Sometimes the surprises are the spur-of-the-moment decisions that become the best part of the day…stopping to capture a photo at just the right moment, or a conversation that goes right to the heart, and warms me to the core.

The beautiful scenery in the mountain west gives me one more thing to appreciate, this Thanksgiving. The sunsets and the blue, blue sky…so beautiful!

This weekend we’ll do some driving, looking at familiar sites, and recalling when we lived here, the Colorado front range the backdrop of the every day, and yet never taken for granted. When I have the chance to be here now, I drink it in, and revel in the magic of the grand peaks, the colors, the seasonal cold, the white of snow.

Mostly I’m thankful that this was the setting for family, and for memory making. I’m thankful for lessons learned, and joys re-discovered, for the people that make it all possible.

I wish the same for everyone…gratitude, mindfulness, peace, and joy. Happy Thanksgiving!

~ Sheila

No books for me

November 15, 2015March 21, 2016 / Sheila / Leave a comment

Tonight I wandered aimlessly through Barnes and Noble, looking at titles, thumbing through pages from favorite authors. The covers were enticing, the smell of books and the order of shelves and aisles calming and soothing. I love the quiet and sanctity of bookstores.

I wandered through the store and finally left with nothing.

Not.One.Book.

I’ve been an avid reader as far back as I can remember. I would rather read than watch anything. I read for pleasure, information, inspiration, and to relieve boredom. I’ll read the cereal box at breakfast rather than stare into space.

Did I mention I’m a reader?

But I find a curious thing happening to me lately.

I still love to read, and there’s always more great material to absorb. Of course, with Amazon at my fingertips, I’ll never be at the end of my author wish list, and no one ever gets to the end of books.

There are always more books to read.

But somehow…somehow…right now, I need to write my words before I read someone else’s.

That doesn’t apply to everything. I read blog posts and other short pieces. I read news articles and recipes. I read Facebook posts and my Twitter feed.

But what I’m not reading, at the moment, are books. I can’t settle with anything. It’s a strange place to find myself. Most of my life, books have been a comfort, or a guide, or both.

But now I find myself wanting to write my book, use my voice. I’ve dipped a toe in these waters before with a couple of short works. I fulfilled a little personal goal, to be an author, even if it was through self-publishing. That isn’t what this experience is about. There’s a gulf between the first two forays into writing books and this one.

This one is the fulfillment, not of personal ambition, but of a personal quest. I’ve struggled with the question of purpose all my adult life, and I’ve finally solved the mystery, to my satisfaction.

I’m writing my story, the story of how I answered the question of purpose for myself, and sharing how others can do it too.

It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t fast.

But it was worth the wait.

And isn’t that the best feeling? When you know…you know…you’ve solved your puzzle, your riddle, finally figured “it” out.

The book is coming along nicely, words pouring out. I may be writing for myself more than anyone else. I don’t know, can’t know, until it’s done and out there, and I see the response.

For now, it’s enough that I want to do this, and that I have the tools.

The book will be on Kindle, hopefully before the end of the year, my Christmas present to myself, to meet my timeline.

And I know I’ll be ready to read again…I’ve already got a few books waiting!

How to get a new laptop with the push of a button

November 7, 2015November 7, 2015 / Sheila / 8 Comments

Sounds too good to be true, right?

I promise that’s all it took!

Well…it only took a simple keystroke to shut down my MacBook Pro last week when I saw the spinning wheel of color, always a bad sign that something’s stalled. I gave it a few minutes, but eventually decided I would just shut down and restart. Much simpler than waiting out whatever was going on with the inner workings of my Mac.

It wasn’t meant to be a momentous choice. But you know how these things happen: you never see disaster coming.

A few minutes later, I realized my laptop wasn’t restarting like it always does. My familiar screens weren’t coming up, and I got on the phone with Apple support in short order. I was blessing myself for buying the service plan, and confidently, even smugly waited for all to be restored.

The friendly Apple guy was confident too, at first. We tried this key and that key, shutting down, simultaneously holding down various combinations of alphabet keys. (I always think I’ll remember what the tech guys have me do so I can fix my problems myself, but I never do.)

Everything brought me back to the same thing: a message saying FileVault had been activated and I needed the encryption key to unlock the computer.

That would have been simple, except that I didn’t have the key, or password, or whatever I needed. I went through two technicians trying to find a work around.

But there was no healing my situation.

Yes. I had very cleverly protected my files from everyone, including myself.

It seems in the last operating system download, I authorized FileVault. I’m sure I was breezing along and agreed to whatever the prompts suggested, but I don’t remember setting up any secret password. And no password I use on a regular basis for the plethora of sites that I’m on worked to open FileVault.

Nothing worked.

Soon the cheerful tech was giving me my options…I could go to an Apple store and get assistance with reinstalling the operating system, or I could do it myself. It would just require this one small step first. I would have to erase my current operating system, and with it, all my saved files.

The conversation went something like this….

Me, getting a little excited: “I’m in Southeast Alaska with no Apple store in sight, or in my near future, certainly not before I need this laptop to work.”

Tech: “Well you’ll be ok, you can get your files from your back up.”

Me: “I haven’t backed up in about a year.”

Tech: “Oh my…well back ups certainly save us. From this point on you’ll have a back up.”

I could hear his opinion through the phone. I think it was something like: “you poor sad idiot!”

I had a few files saved on iCloud, and anything that I access from web-based programs is fine. I could import my photos from my phone or other digital sources.

But I lost a lot of documents and downloads, most of which I can’t replace. I download PDFs all the time…there’s no way I could backtrack and find all I had saved.

Worse, I’m not entirely sure what all I lost. I know there were lots of fonts and graphics, recipes, words of wisdom, quotes…so much I’d accumulated over the last few years.

You know all those things that you run across by happy accident and you save?!

Yeah, that’s the stuff I lost.

All my work files are gone. Some things I had shared via email I can get back. But like the other things I’m missing, I really only know categorically what’s gone, I can’t recall item by item what’s lost.

At least I still have the three books I’ve written. I’d saved through the Cloud, though I didn’t save all my writing, not by a long shot.

The new install gave me back lots of storage space, and a chance to reinvent my digital world.

I’m slowly re-downloading programs, and finding bits and pieces I can restore from a variety of sources. It’s a painful process.

But the up side is I cleaned out a lot of old stuff, too, and I’d needed to do that for a while. I just didn’t expect to do it in a rush with the click of a button.

Live and learn. I like to think I’m savvy, that I keep up with all my passwords and I save appropriately. This taught me I’m not as careful as I like to think, and even though my laptop didn’t crash, and I didn’t lose it physically, being locked out by FileVault was just as effective at wiping me out.

So, I have a clean, new, almost empty computer. And I did not enable FileVault on this install. It turns out I’m a lot less concerned that my files will be breached, more worried about getting locked out again.

I’m in familiar territory though, being a cautionary tale (seems to be one of my callings in life) to remind fellow computer users: Back up! Back up! Back up! Oh, and unless you have state secrets to guard, save yourself. Don’t activate FileVault.

Bibbity Bobbity Boo!

October 19, 2015 / Sheila / 5 Comments

It was a weekend with the Littles, and two weeks out from Halloween, it was a weekend to visit the pumpkin patch and pick the perfect ones to carve for the big event.

Riley and Jack take me to my childhood, and to memories of my kids’ childhoods. What a joy, this third time around to experience the magic and the firsts.

And even though this Halloween isn’t a true first for either of them, they’re young enough that each year is still fresh, a new experience of abilities, awareness, and memory.

They’re at that tender age when their traditions are forming. They’re beginning to know what they do “every” year. Riley, especially, is reaching the age to anticipate, to forecast, to know.

She knows Halloween is coming, that Christmas is around the corner, and that her next birthday is on the horizon.

Jack parrots Riley, so even though he doesn’t have a lot of understanding about dates and events yet, he pipes up with the right words. He copies what she says, and how she says it, right down to the tone of voice and the emphasis and excitement.

It’s delicious to be around them, to hear the baby wisdom. To hear Riley say yesterday that she would “just be the bigger person!” Of course she wasn’t…she was immediately the smaller person, in response to something Jack had done. But she’s working on it. She’s got the words, and she knows when to use them. She just has to perfect her follow through. I recognize pieces of Riley through my first-born self and my first-born daughter, and now another of us. Riley mothers, and orders, and knows. She knows what she wants. And she understands how life works, even at five.

And Jack! That boy, he’s stolen my heart with his laugh, his energy, his very joy of living. He’s almost never still, until suddenly he is, passed out in a heap of exhaustion.

We wait for that moment, every night. He’s precious, but he’s a busy one. And at his bedtime, I think you can hear an audible “aaahhh.” It’s just a wee victory, Jack quiet and down for the night.

His language is growing, every day. But he still has some of the charming baby phrasing I find so irresistible. Two months short of three, he sometimes sounds like a little boy version of Riley, who sometimes sounds like a little girl version of a teenager.

Such is the power of culture. She picks up the tone and phrases, and he learns from her.

But he’s still a Little, too. Often throughout the day he comes to announce, “I hungry!” Like the book he loves about the hungry caterpillar, he eats and eats and eats. And he runs. He’s a runner, and a jumper.

As always, any time they’re in my keeping, the goal is to pass them back safely. Bones intact, no stitches. 🙂

Tonight we’re done, getting ready for bed, the Littles are home with parents. But we’ll see them in a couple of weeks, gear up for another few days of being in their world, their routines, remember the rhythm and the magic.

We’ll carve the pumpkins and buy candy to hand out at the door, feel the building excitement of Halloween for little kids…the non-scary, candy collecting, neighborhood walking event.

It’s a charm-filled time in their little lives, and I’m so thankful to share it.

Lost and found: a year of discovery and recovery

October 5, 2015March 21, 2016 / Sheila / 2 Comments

It’s been a year this week since we sold the house in Ketchikan and vaulted into a nomadic life. For the past year I’ve lived out of two Eddie Bauer roller bag suitcases, supplemented with seasonal changes of wardrobe from my storage unit, and a few items stashed in my daughter’s spare room closet.

I haul a few favorite kitchen knives with me, good sheets (I’m picky about knives and sheets) and enough clothes to get through a couple of weeks.

I’m also creating a traveling “junk drawer” in one of the zipper pockets of my larger suitcase. Even when you’re mobile, you need a place to put extra buttons or receipts or the odd items that you don’t want to throw away but don’t need in your purse.

I tell people we’re homeless, but that’s just in fun. We’re really transitory, working and staying in temporary duty apartments during work stays. Between commitments we spend a few days with family or friends, or traveling. So far I don’t think we’ve out-stayed our welcome anywhere (but maybe I should ask my son-in-law to be sure about that 🙂 ).

In the past year we’ve attended a 10 day meditation retreat and a week-long event that focused on resolving issues from the past. I’ve launched two Kindle books and have another one ready to list. I’ve reduced my household possessions to a one-car garage-size storage unit. I’m working with a web design firm to create a new site. We’ve traveled to the Caribbean and cross-country from Texas to Georgia, Mississippi, Tennessee, Colorado, California, Oregon, and of course, Washington (home of the Littles).

It’s been quite a year.

I didn’t see it coming when it began.

It’s been like the classic line from Dickens, the best of times and the worst of times.

Thanks to many forces at work in my life, thank God it’s ending in the right way, with the best of times.

And if we’re not settled yet, after a year of working and roaming, I’m content enough, without an immediate need for a nest under my wings.

The past weeks, working in SE Alaska, life has come full circle, come back to serenity, and to joy.

I’ve learned, once again, that the important things in life aren’t things. That happiness is elusive…when you look for it, it’s often difficult to find. But when you stop chasing it, it appears, seemingly out of nowhere.

Who would guess that I could be happy without my home, my nest all neat and feathered? Or that not knowing the future and how it will look wouldn’t rattle me?

I’ve learned to always hope. Always hope.

You don’t have to have it all figured out to move forward.

I’ve learned that whatever is going on in life, there are always forces at work, shaping events and others’ choices in ways that will impact, and in ways that I can’t imagine, can’t see. Life is never all in our control, so I shouldn’t be surprised when there are twists and turns I don’t foresee.

Often I’m still caught off guard, though, even though I think I’ve absorbed this lesson well. Sometimes it works for me, and sometimes against me.

I’ve learned that gratitude, and doing the right thing as far as I’m able, cures most of life’s angst.

I’ve learned, again, that life doesn’t have to be perfect, or anything near that mark, to be wonderful.

One of these days, we’ll be re-settled, and life will look more “normal.” Or so I assume.

But in the meantime, it’s enough that I catch myself singing, and smiling, and feeling a spring in my step. After a year of frequent wandering in the wilderness, these are welcome signs of renewal.

Spring in October? Well, in SE Alaska that seems unlikely. But spring in my heart?

Yes. Just yes!

Stories I tell myself

September 27, 2015March 21, 2016 / Sheila / 2 Comments

Funny how pride can trip you up. Funny how it can blind you to reality, especially when part of what you’re proud of is that you always live in reality.

Well, does anyone? I like to think I do, and sometimes that’s true, at least as clearly as I perceive reality.

But not always.

Lately I’ve been looking at the ways I interpret my life, and choices, and I’ve realized: I haven’t always lived in reality. Oh, it looked that way. But it wasn’t true.

Here’s an example of what I mean:

From another life, years and years ago, when I was a 20-something and doing all I could to keep my head above water, holding life together with two little ones and weathering the challenges of life with a medical student husband, and then a resident husband, living 1200 miles from family, I told myself how strong I was, how mature I was. I was doing my part. I was brave.

No.

The reality was, I was foolish.

Why did I think I had to do what I did, largely without help, and trying to make it look easy? Who told me that was a mature choice?

No one told me. I just assumed that’s what adults did.

It would have been more brave to have admitted I needed help, I was in over my head. But I was so busy being strong, being mature, I didn’t let my guard down long enough to admit those needs to myself, much less to anyone else. I was so busy being mommy, being adult, I let go of being Sheila, and I certainly let go of being wife.

The reality is, I made it through those years. We made it. We survived. We even appeared to thrive.

But there was a toll, some of which I feel to this day. The coping skills I learned during that time of life weren’t always healthy. I learned to do a lot on my own, to shut out a lot. It’s not behavior that encourages partnership, and our partnership has suffered through the years because of habits formed when we were very young.

Oh, we moved on. We moved beyond. We didn’t stay totally stuck in that time. But we brought along some of the damage, some of the baggage, without really recognizing it.

So now, I see. I reflect, I think back to those babies, those 20-somethings raising babies, and keeping up with the challenges, because we didn’t know it was ok to show weakness, to ask for help. We thought it was brave to do it on our own.

Is it brave to stand without help? Maybe. Sometimes. It depends on how healthy you are, and what it takes out of you to do it. Some of the damage we created then we couldn’t see at the time. We were too busy being strong to recognize how weak we really were.

Some of these patterns I’ve seen, so many years later, and I look back and wish I could do over. I don’t exactly know how I would do it differently. But some things would change.

We ran a marathon that almost killed a marriage, left us shells of people who only knew how to keep going, keep being brave and strong and adult.

I realize, I told myself a story about what life would look like, about what adulthood meant, about what marriage meant. I didn’t know I was making it up, out of a lot of assumptions and vague beliefs. I thought I was living in reality.

One of the ironies of life is that in a time I thought I saw so clearly, I was blind. In a time I thought I had a lot on the ball, I was just juggling balls, not seeing how close I was to dropping many things.

In hindsight, and with clarity, I see so much that was hidden from me then.

I wonder what I’m missing now?

Life is a process, and each choice brings us to the next choice. I’m more thoughtful now about the stories I tell myself, the certainty I feel when I assess. I’ve learned that just because I can handle a situation on my own, that isn’t always the best decision. Sometimes the best choice is to invite others to join, to help, to help me see clearly. To help me live in reality.

Stories are fun, sometimes funny. They should teach us too, help us know the traps to avoid and the joys to embrace.

I don’t know what my story will do for others. Will it be a cautionary tale? Or a story of life reinvented, mistakes recovered, joy restored?

I hope it will be all those things. Let me caution you, don’t be like me. Don’t tell yourself you’re brave, when you’re only short-sighted. Don’t do without help when you really need it.

I’ve been given a great gift. I can’t turn back the clock, but the lessons of those days, and others, are living with me now, helping me see and right things that need to be righted.

I’m telling myself a new story these days. It is one of partnership, one of strength. But not strength from doing everything myself. It is strength from shared vision, shared goals, shared life.

Aaahhh…I think I’m finally living in reality.

Earth in the soul

September 17, 2015March 21, 2016 / Sheila / 3 Comments

I’m drinking my coffee, looking out at morning sun over vineyard rows, the symmetry and orderliness calling to my soul.

What is there about farming that sings to me? I don’t have any real ambition to work the land, to tend crops or fret about the impact of weather on harvest. But there is something there.

I think it’s the heritage of my grandparents, farmers all, at one point or other in their lives: tied to the soil, to the rhythm of seasons and the cycle of labor, prepare, plant, nurture, harvest, rest.

My grandmothers were gardeners. They were primarily gardeners of vegetables, real food. One of them also raised chickens, and the other was an avid flower gardener, in addition to the plants she grew for food.

They worked hard. As a kid growing up, I had the luxury of helping on the fringe, shelling peas or some other child-friendly task. I wasn’t out doing the real manual labor.

I got to enjoy the bounty. My grandmothers’ tomatoes and corn, peas and butter beans, strawberries and cucumbers were all features of their summer tables, in fresh-from-the-field dishes. Canned and frozen versions appeared in the fall and winter months. Pickles, jams, and all things good lined their shelves and filled their freezers.

In my childhood home, gardening wasn’t a hobby, it was a necessity.

I wish I could say I learned this skill from these women, but I didn’t. At the time, I was too young, and later, too busy, to value the knowledge and the work of putting food on the table the old-fashioned way. I thought, in some place in my younger-self brain, that growing your own food wasn’t glamorous. It was too lowly. It wasn’t where I would put my efforts. Give me a nice clean grocery store, vegetables and fruit clean and neatly arranged in artistic rows.

No sweat and dirt for me, thank you!

Now I look out over these rows and I’m wistful. I wish, sometimes, I could be still long enough to see a season through from the planting to the harvesting. I wish I could know the satisfaction of raising my own food. I look back at the women of my youth and I appreciate them in a different way. They were hard workers, and they were so knowledgeable. How did I miss that? How could I think that because they weren’t well educated in a formal sense that I couldn’t learn from them?

I don’t know that I ever really thought that. But I demonstrated it. I didn’t try to learn what they knew. I took it for granted, and shelved what I saw into the category of “nothing I’ll ever need to know.”

I wish I could go back and sit with them, appreciate them from an adult point of view. I wish I could tell them how proud I am of them, how inspired I feel by them. Knowing, as I know now, more about their lives, how hard they worked, how selflessly they gave.

I look out over the rows and I feel it, the call to my blood. Is it some sort of genetic memory? I don’t even know if such a thing exists, or if I believe in that. But something pulls. Maybe it’s just nostalgia for connection to the land that I used to have, through them.

Maybe it’s knowing I missed chances, and I don’t want to do that anymore.

My grandmothers knew I loved them. I said that, many times. But I don’t know if they knew I respected them. I’m not sure I did, as my younger self. I didn’t think of them in that way. But now…now, I wish I could tell them that.

I respect them for the love they showed, for their work, for who they were in their time of life. Their lives were so different from mine. But finally, looking out over the vineyard, I know that’s not important.