It happens every year, it seems. At least for the last decade.  I “fake” it for 11 months and then late November and early December roll around and I am lost.  Not really “lost”, more “lonely” which makes me feel lost. Actually, maybe what I am is sad, Yes. That’s it. I am SAD.

What the fuck happened? I though you grew up, got married, had children and lived happily ever after. NOPE. Apparently not.

Here is the problem: I AM SUCH A BIG FAKER!!!! Everybody thinks I am so happy and so successful and my life is GREAT... well this is because I am such a good actor. Don’t get me wrong. Some parts of my life are greeeeaaatttt…. I am alive. I have a dog. I drink coffee and read in bed for two hours in the am (from 4:30 to 6:30), I have three grown, married children and six grandchildren…a great brother, loyal friends, new and old, and a mother who is 91 and half, which means I may have thirty years left….OH NO!!!! so, some things are good.

 

 

 

 

It is 5:15 am and I have just opened the windows wide to let Fall arrive. A cold front approaches and the wind is wild.  Leaves  rustle in the trees. Acorns drop like snowflakes, making popping noises as they hit the deck. It is still dark now that days are getting shorter.  A few cars drive by.  Early morning risers, off to work.  Or, mothers, on their way to 6 am yoga classes, where I should probably be headed.  A group of voices in the distance, getting closer.  Runners, adorned with headlamps, starting the day with a five-mile run.  A new season.

I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate.  There is too much buzzing around in my head distracting me.  My 4:30 am coffee didn’t seem to do much to help me focus. I’m sad. I feel misunderstood, betrayed, disrespected.  I don’t feel like a “victim”.  Rather, I feel as though I am the punching bag for someone’s own misguided, ill-informed, convoluted reality – a combination of her own projection, self-doubt, and entitled perceptions. Unfortunately, that person is my only daughter, who has managed to tell herself a story that she actually believes.

And now the dilemma:  How much of this is mine to own?  How much of this is mine to fix?  Will this blow over like the wind outside my window?  I am not so sure.  The attack, the accusations, the words, the threats and the foreshadowing are heart-wrenching.

Over the years, therapy and self-help books have been my go-tos.  That, along with conversations with close friends, who have listened, not just telling me what I hear, but often giving me pointers….things to consider…all helpful in different ways. But, I am tired.  I can’t “fix” or repair these things myself.  I can meditate, go to yoga….distance myself from the “toxicity”. But, these things are bandaids on a wound that is so raw, so deep and oozing with the ickiness and poison which are the result of resentment, hatred and emotions seeping into me day after day after day, month after month, year after year

I’m not perfect.  That I know. But, I have tried.  I’ve done my best. I have given and given and given.  Maybe therein lies the problem!  How ironic!

However, more than anything, all I can hear…the phrase that repeatedly keeps popping up in my head is “How like a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child?…”  And this, is really disturbing.

If only this October wind could blow it all away….. 10/16/2007

 

 

 

 

 

’Twas two weeks before Christmas and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring (thank goodness no mouse !)

The plows in the distance told me we’d had snow,

Until I got up, how much I wouldn’t know.

The lights outside twinkled, my down puff felt right,

But ’twas time to get up!  Why? It still was the night!

The clock on my Iphone said 3:45

Bear’s snoring told me that he was alive.

I bounced out of bed, coffee on my mind,

Next thing to choose was which roast I should grind.

Espresso was calling, and so choose that I must,

But the frother screwed up and the outcome a bust:(

“Alexa, I shouted, play some Christmas cheer! And next,

Setting up the tree,  a task I did fear!

In my flannel pajamas, coffee cup in my hand,

I ventured downstairs to search for the stand.

Amidst all the boxes, and all kinds of “stuff”,

I found three Christmas tree stands, I guess one’s not enough!

I gave it some thought and choose one of the three,

Hoping THAT choice would make things real easy for me.

Back up in the living room I grabbed onto the tree,

Attempting to place in the stand, patience clearly the key…..

After several attempts, with needles in my hair, and pitch on my hands,

While Alexa continued to play great Christmas bands,

I had done it, Hurray!  Not so hard I must say ,

That is until I started walking away…….

Boom!  The tree went tumbling , my efforts had failed,

Though I thought that the feat I had pretty much nailed!

My thoughts were not gracious, my expletives loud,

But with nobody around they weren’t heard by a crowd!

So again, finding focus, I started over again,

Thinking maybe this is chore for the men………

It makes me happy to come to the rescue of others. To take care of others.  To find solutions, give suggestions or sacrifice my needs to meet those of others.  Children. Grandchildren. Clients. Friends.  OR DOES IT?

Most days I worry.  I fret. I am irritated and feel as though my work is never done. Of course it isn’t!  I am tying to save the world at the cost of finding peace within myself. Along the way, my saving, solving and suggesting illicit negative responses from my adult children, to name a few “resisters”. They are annoyed, indignant and ungrateful.  It doesn’t help our relationships. It creates distance and tension. It festers a gap between us.  And then, we have another problem. Another thing for me to solve.

Until the last few years, despite intermittent binges with self-help books and therapy, I wasn’t getting it.  I would ask myself what is wrong? Why don’t they listen to me? Why don’t they take my suggestions?  Why are they so crabby?

Last week, I was on the phone with my middle son who is married, has two children, a wife and lives in the Southeast.  They have several homes, a dog and  demanding but fruitful careers.  They are well-educated and live a very busy life.  They are good people, great parents and have a loyal friends and an active social life.  They exercise and eat well. And, on most Sundays, they even attend church.

Each July they come to Maine for a week and that time is quickly approaching.  William mentioned  that he and his wife may like to drive to the White Mountains to hike and spend a night or two when they come at the end of the month. I immediately responded, ” You don’t want to do that!  You want to be at the beach.”  He said, ( and this is the one child with whom I rarely argue, talk to often and share things whether work or play related.)  His immediate retort was, “Don’t tell me what I want to do.”

It stopped me in my tracks.  It was an epiphany of sorts. OF COURSE I SHOULDN’T TELL HIM WHAT HE WANTS TO DO!!!  I AM ME.  I AM NOT HIM!!!!

Like a bolt of lightening … an explosion… a meteor strike.  There it was one conversation.  One response. And, I do believe it opened my eyes more than anything I have ever experience.

In trying to help, suggest, save and care for others, I have been on a self path of control. A  path that has and is only serving to leave me always a little bit empty, unfilled, never satisfied.. In what in my heart was love and concern, really is a combination or two things: Controlling others and not paying attention my own needs, taking care of myself.

The problem with my sleepless nights and frustrated days is that I have taken on the task of “saving the world”.    While a noble undertaking one would think . However, it is based on all the wrong things. And, how can I save the world?  First, I must save myself and then, in doing so, I will realize it is not my job to save the world.  Others need to save themselves….How arrogant and silly to think I could be the savior of all!

I haven’t “arrived”.  The habits will be difficult to break.  But, the journey has begun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was a little girl, back in the sixties…. I would sketch dresses and shoes and hats and coats. I pretended to be a famous fashion designer. I remember vividly adding patterns to the dresses, placing bows on shoes…drawing polka dot blouses and fancy hats with feathers and flowers.

Somewhere along the way, the creativity and passion I had as a youth faded. Perhaps it has re-surfaced in my adult life, as I take on house renovations and attempt to put together my homes and helped clients with theirs. Maybe it is the underlying core for my own fashion and obsession with style. I continue to be obsessed with shoes and clothing and accessories My manic brain stirs constantly with an eye for color, textures, shapes and sizes. I can get excited about a raglan sweater made from beautiful yarn, a pair of heels with straps and bows, a straw hat with a grosgrain ribbon dangling down the back. No less thrilling is a pair of perfect ripped jeans, with patches that just touch your ankles…. paired with killer shoes and tanned skin.  This is what I love to do. I have flair….. That is what I am told.

When I think about things that may have contributed to not following this path of fashion, I find myself asking, “why?”. How could something I enjoy so much not have lead to a career or life allowing me to wake up every day and let this love drive me through work and play. I didn’t recognize my passion.

Jackie Kennedy, Katherine Hepburn, Coco Chanel, Madonna, Lady Gaga…to name a few…. all had their looks, their styles which distinguished them in the world of fashion…. and, those ruby red shoes with Judy’s blue and white gingham dress and dangling braided pigtails. These images are vivid to me.

When I was four, I had a plaid wool pleated skirt with suspenders and a matching hat from the Country Style, a small boutique in the barn of a nearby home. The wool made my thighs itch…but it was a darling outfit and it made me feel special.

My grandmother made many of my clothes. I can remember all of them…the cream-colored wide wale corduroy jumper, the mustard calico smocked dress with a Peter Pan collar…. the white lace First Communion dress…the flannel pajamas and nightgowns each Christmas. I can still smell the flannel.

I was so aware of style at age 7. I would leave the house with snow pants under my dress and the minute I was far away enough from my mother’s site I would tear off the pants…puffy snow pants looked silly under a dress.

It wasn’t only the clothing…it was furniture placement. I shared a room with my younger sister and several times a year, I would re-arrange the furniture…I can still remember the rows of floral wallpaper, off-white with rose in that bedroom.

In the eyes of my mother, I wasn’t creative. Once, when I drew what I thought was a lovely picture, but my mother flippantly glanced at it, dismissed it, and said, “Oh dear, it is clear Kate (my sister) got all the talent.” I was devastated. To this day she denies saying that. But, she did and I remember.

I know that wasn’t true. Art and creativity presents itself in many forms. I didn’t realize it then… Maybe that is why I shut down, squelched my appetite and chose a different path. However, the yearning continued and I made, even if subliminal, attempts to channel that creativity.  But that was then and now is now. Today, I long to design, paint and write. I want to mix, match, create, modify, add to, take away from, make beautiful, transform or make interesting or crazy almost everything I see.

I can spend hours moving paintings from one wall to another …or placing chairs at different angles or pulling together an outfit, even if it is just for a normal work day. Studying shades of lipstick, blush and eyeliner at a makeup counter is fun and relaxing for me. The different types of lipstick, matte or gloss in intrigue me.

Clothes,shoes,paintings,color,furniture….bring it on….Here I come!

What is your style?

Habits…they can be really funny.  They can be quirky, annoying and debilitating, I suppose.  They can become such a part of your being that nothing can block them.

Drinking my morning coffee is, for me, a morning ritual nobody should attempt to thwart.  It has become the most sacred, quiet, reflective part of my day. Without it,  I am lost. Without it, the outcome of the next twelve hours will be most likely one of annoyance, irritability and a general feeling of being “off”.  Not to mention a pounding headache.

Over the years, I have tried many types of coffee…coffees from all over the world. A variety of blends, from  many different countries.  I have tried various ways of brewing; electric percolator, drip coffee makers (THE WORST!), French press….I even had a short-lived stint with Keurig for the sake of convenience.  That didn’t work for me.  Within two days, I decided it wasn’t worth drinking and the plastic and chemicals used in those silly little cups would kill me.  In the 1980’s, I even tried “flavored” coffee when it began to become popular.  Hazelnut . Never again…..the after-taste remained for hours. Give me a rich, dark non-flavored brew.

When I became pregnant with my first child in 1981, pregnant women were told to not drink coffee.  This was a setback.  For the first ten weeks of my pregnancy, after stopping cold turkey, I had terrible headaches from caffeine withdrawal.  Thank goodness the thought on that has changed.

The coffee itself is crucial but so is the mug.  You may think that is a bit weird.  However, the shape, the size, the handle…all aspects of the cup from which I am sipping my morning brew impacts the experience.   The mug can’t be too small.  The lip on the top can’t be too round.  The handle can’t be too bulky.  And, of course, no plastic allowed.  When on the run, and buying coffee to go, paper cups are acceptable, styrofoam an “no-no”.

SO…the perfect mug, a rich dark roast, a bit of milk….and quiet.  The start to a happy day.

How do you like your coffee?

mary elizabeth

 

 

 

 

The snow today brings me back to the good old days, the sixties, when we lived in a winter wonderland from November until April.  I can’t remember a winter back then when we didn’t bundle up and build snow forts and tunnels for days.  We pretended we were Eskimos making our igloos.  Our cheeks were always rosy, nearing frostbite status and the clothes we wore couldn’t compete with today’s fabrics.  We didn’t care and we didn’t notice.

We played for hours, coming in occasionally for hot chocolate or grilled cheese sandwiches and soup.  If we were lucky, we would sneak food coloring from the kitchen cabinets and make snow cones, painting the fluffy white snow crazy, primary colors.

When we came into the warm house, we started dripping immediately.  The frozen mini snowballs on our handmade woolen mittens, hats and socks quickly melted as they laid on the steam radiators.  The smell of melting snow on mittens is permanently  imprinted in my head.

When school was cancelled, it was rare!  Looking back, I am not even sure how we knew it was cancelled… It was winter and you went to school; rain, snow, sleet or hail!  (We also went to school from September until mid June…FULL DAYS!!! no teacher workshops, half days etc….but that is a whole other story!!!)   We hardly ever knew just how much snow was coming….it just came without much warning.   The storms had no names like they do today.  It was just snow!

After the roads were cleared, we went sledding.  We had two choices: aluminum flying saucers or wooden toboggans with red,white and blue cushions.  We went to the nearest big hill, often the Purpooduck Club, loading up the toboggan with as many people as we could squeeze in, and then we went flying down the hill. We trudged back up and did it all over again. We did it for HOURS!!!!  At least once a year, we went at night, under the full moon. It was magical.

Our ski weekends at Mt. Abrams and Poland Springs were far from fancy. Skis were wooden,  our leather ski boots laced up and our bindings were not step-ins!!!!  We even had rope tows in those days!  T-bars were a treat!  The lodges were “lodges”, with rustic surroundings.  Our lunches were packed at home. Peanut butter, bologna and mustard, if you were lucky. I think it cost $180 a season for a FAMILY PASS.

I just came in from shoveling.  It was fun. Each shovel full brought be back to my childhood.  Cold winters, white snow, woolen mittens, rosy cheeks….Maine winter days unadulterated with today’s distractions.

Go out today and play. Shovel. Ski. Snowshoe. Make snow angels. Make a snowman.

#lovemainewinters