Just a little more back story ...

I know I can be just a wee bit tangential at times. But I promise that I will "reign it all back in" soon, and you'll understand why I had to preface what's currently happening with what went before.  Meanwhile, just a bit of 'unbecoming attractions' before I continue:



September 2017 ... Look familiar to image of December 2014?

Yes, sometimes after all that hard work we do on ourselves, we can end up back where we started, only a little older and with the fear that this time around, we won't recover after all.  I was rather shocked and saddened, after taking this raw selfie, of just how much it resembled the one I took several years ago.  I mean, what's the point, if this is what I'm going to revert back to, time and again???

But -- just to make sure you know that God in his infinite mercy can restore us when we think we are far too gone, here's another image from today, just several weeks after the first pic.  And yes, I still feel like one of the walking dead.  However, our eyes are truly the windows to the soul and there's no denying that this girl has a little piss and vinegar left in her.

October 2017 -- After 'inhaling' a Starbucks tomato caprese sandwich

That should give some reassurance that "I can do all things with Him who strengthens me."  Father actually made the entire congregation recite that aloud THREE times tonight.  Personally, I think the Lord put a bug in his ear regarding that sad thing sitting in the  9th row on the left.  The one who got home from church to find a letter from the IRS politely asking for an additional $705.00, after initially notifying her in August that she was actually getting a refund of $4,800.00.  Those auditors with the Department of the Treasury have a positively sadistic sense of humor. 

But back to the rest of the back story ...

As I said in my first post, I went through a rough patch in late 2014 and was able to turn it around with vigilant application of discipline to all aspects of my life -- physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.  Even when confronted by what could have been a game changing back injury, I kept going -- literally and figuratively -- and was able to heal in every way. 

While I was strong enough to reenter the land of the living in 2015, one thing that remained a source of consternation was ... men.  Part of the reason I had sunk so low at the end of 2014 was  the demise of my budding involvement with a guy who was brilliant, funny, handsome, and talented. I 'met' him on FB through a mutual friend who thought we'd be a great match.  He had a decidedly sarcastic streak in all of his postings, which led to some playful banter by which anyone could see that we were developing a mutual crush online.  He was initially from my neck of the woods in Louisiana but currently lived in central Florida, where he shared joint custody of three little ones. 

We first private messaged on FB chat, then progressed to email, and finally to phone calls, where we talked like magpies, one time all through the night as I traveled on AMTRAK to Wisconsin.  He'd had notions, as a very young man, of being a writer, and had done well at it in his classes at my own alma mater, Tulane University. However, his financier father had developed serious health issues at a relatively young age.  The son, accordingly, dropped out of school to help his father and never looked back.  And, at the time we met, he was still assisting his father (currently living in Central America) with the latter's loan business.  





My long distance love of 2013-2015 -- Told you he was cute

It was clearly apparent, however, that he had a talent for expression that was going to waste.  He wrote me poems.  Not embarrassingly bad, horribly rhyming poems, but really lovely stuff.  Even his texts and emails came off as verse, to the point that I actually created two chap books of his writings, some of them nothing more than wonderful private messages to me. The chap books were never created for publication, but more to show him just how talented he was and how much he needed to develop and share that talent.

I even illustrated the books, and for the cover, simply used a picture he made when he and his kids were creating self portraits in the driveway with Dawn dishwashing liquid. 

Here is one of the many poems he dashed off for me:

It's just a room

A parlor, as old gentlemen would say
Lamps, old books, family photos
Quiet, peaceful
You dance in

Smelling of grass and fresh rain

Carrying an armful of daffodils
You dress the flowers and put them in a vase
Then smile and pick up your book
And I realize it's not just a room



Now, this is where I tell you what a romantic I am, and actually, how much he was, as well.  I'd forgotten this, but the title of the first chap book was "A Penny Under the Nightstand." You see, "V" was even more of a fan than I of what may arguably be the most romantic film ever made: "Somewhere in Time."  Anyone who has seen that movie knows how tragic the appearance of a lowly penny can be. 

 

The Grand Hotel -- Mackinac Island, Michigan

Christopher Reeve as Richard Collier

Christopher Reeve's character, Richard Collier, is a modern day  playwright who is experiencing writer's block and a generalized ennui about his current existence.  To clear his head, he spontaneously takes off from Chicago, zooming through I-94 out of Chicago and eventually, with no reservations, arrives at this achingly beautiful spot on Mackinac Island, in northern Michigan.  And it actually is this breathtaking -- my parents took me and my brothers there when we were young. 

Since no cars are allowed on the island, Hollywood took a liberty in allowing Richard to pull right up to the front of the Grand Hotel in his convertible.  He's so endearingly handsome, however, that I would not blame the hotel for making this one time exception to the rule.  When Richard enters the hotel dining room that evening, he is told that it will not be open for almost another hour. 

 

Richard Collier sees Elise McKenna for the first time

With time on his hands, he decides to walk about the hotel and discovers a room containing historical objects associated with the hotel and the surrounding community.  And then, he sees the portrait of HER and becomes sufficiently captivated that he is determined to travel though time, all the way back to 1912 to meet the woman of his dreams, an esteemed young actress of the day, Elise McKenna, played by Jane Seymour.

To prepare for this meeting, Richard first confers with a former professor from his college days -- to ascertain if time travel is even possible and, if so, how to make it happen.  He also buys a three-piece suit in a vintage shop to help him further embody the era he is trying to enter.
 

His initial attempt to transport himself is frustratingly futile, but eventually, Richard is successful, not only in going back to 1912, and meeting Elise, but at capturing her guarded heart, despite  her creepily possessive manager (played by Christopher Plummer) sparing no effort -- including a brutal attack on Richard -- to keep the two star crossed lovers apart.  They are finally together, gloriously happy but for a few hours, with no idea of just how short lived their bliss will be. 



Richard Collier and Elise McKenna in a blissful moment together

The penny that pulled them apart

What happens is that Elise says something like "The first thing I'm going to do for you ..." whereupon Richard interrupts her, teasing, "You've already done." She blushes and says, "Well, the second thing I'm going to do is buy you a new suit."  She tells him it's terribly outdated, and he rises, protesting, "I don't know why people keep giving me such a hard time about this suit."  He laughs about how it's got all kinds of special pockets for tucking things away, and, as example, pulls a coin out of one of the pockets.  He then stares with shock and dread at the 1979 penny in his outstretched hand.  Recognition of the year from which he traveled causes him to be pulled back into it, as Elise watches in horror.  At this point, the entire movie audience recoils in empathetic sadness.

Richard comes to on the bed back in the current day version of his hotel room.  He weeps and tries in vain to transport himself back to Elise, but he is physically exhausted (one of the side effects of time travel his college professor had warned him about) and cannot do so.  He goes into a state of catatonic depression.  By the time the hotel staff discover him, he is near death and cannot be resuscitated.  However, the story ends with this image of Richard reunited with Elise in the Great Beyond. 


Heavenly reuniting of Elise and Richard

So, minus a few details here and there, that is the bittersweet story that has made this movie such a favorite for men as well as women.  I was surprised in reading up on this, how much both sexes have taken to this film.  There is a fan base which includes couples who go to the Grand Hotel and dress in period costume in homage to Richard and Elise. 

My long distance love, "V," was the one who brought up the 1979 penny, and saw a bit of the story of Elise and Richard in our situation, insofar as the distance between us.  Early on, he told me that he kept a 1979 penny on his nightstand, that his little boy once picked up the penny and asked to put it in his bank.  He told his son, "No, that's a special one you cannot have." He then proceeded to keep it in a safe place by taping it to the underside of the nightstand.  I, in turn, found myself constantly checking my change whether at Starbucks or the grocery store.  One week, I actually received three 1979 pennies.  And one of them, in kind, was taped to the underside of my own nightstand.  I told you I was a romantic. 

This poem was actually the first "V" wrote for me. There is a suggested dreaminess in his imagining what it would be like to watch me sleep.

I awake in the night
I see a soft shadow on your face

I hear your slow steady breath
I want to touch you, but you seem so
Content
So I lie and wonder what you are dreaming about
The Canals in Venice?
The Gardens of Versailles?
And I hope

Wherever you are, I am there
And I slowly drift off to sleep
Content

 "V" and I never did meet.  We didn't even have the few hours of bliss shared by Elise and Richard.  The reason fell into that all-encompassing term: complicated.  His initial proposition was that we meet in Guatemala!  He'd arrange for a plane ticket and meet up with me in his father's current environs.

I was, predictably, surprised by this suggestion.  After all, he knew very little about me, including that I was 13 years his senior.  When I told our mutual friend about the suggested plan, I said, "I was thinking more of meeting for coffee at some point," to which my friend responded with a wink, "I'm sure they have coffee in Guatemala."  He added, "What are you afraid of?"  I said, "That he'll be disappointed."  To which he said, "Well, I wouldn't be." 


Fantasizing about being Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

Still, being flown to another continent for an initial meet-up was a little more dramatic than I could handle.  So, as we got to know each other further, the plan seemed to be that I'd come to central Florida at some point and meet him on his turf with his kids.  Meanwhile, we daydreamed, as people often do, in that glorious initial stage, of how we might live someday.  He was an impassioned cook and had fantasized about someday having a small farm, and using what he reaped to take to a weekly market, offering "A Taste of New Orleans."  With me by his side, of course.  I pictured myself, barefoot, hair long and free, wearing some loose kind of dress, writing in a humble "Cross Creek" shabby chic kind of farmhouse, and rising every so often to go to the doorway and watch him outside in his element.  We even had a name for the farm, but that's ours alone to remember. 

But --

 

 

 

 

Week #1:  Just a little back story ...

I've made my living as a writer for 40+ years, and I don't know how to begin this. I only know I should and I will.  All day long, I've been doing laundry, dishes, assembling thrift shop donations, you name it -- anything to avoid writing the first sentence.  Perfectly constructed thoughts come to me as I fall asleep or begin to awaken, but not in my full consciousness.

Maybe because I never wanted to be in a situation to write the first sentence of a blog like this.  Certainly, I could not imagine doing so a year ago, when I was the happiest girl alive.

And maybe because I've been through this rodeo once before, and thought it was behind me.

You see, several years ago -- the holidays of 2014, to be exact, I was going through what's called "a rough patch."  A convergence of events that bore down hard on my heart and soul.  The details aren't important now, other than that they involved a broken heart due to having developed deep feelings for someone with mental illness, a family rift created by a member who thrives on creating conflict, and some harsh criticism from a curmudgeonly old priest when I was doing my level best to provide "service with a smile" as the sole 'usherette' at an overwhelmingly crowded Midnight Mass. 

That was the final straw.  After all, hadn't I done what people are always advised to do when feeling low?  Pull your head out of our own proverbial behind and focus on others?  I could have taken my lonesome to the Virgin Islands for a week. But I spent that same money on half a dozen 'care packages' which I surprised friends with throughout the country.  People I thought could probably use a lift themselves. 

I had not asked anyone to rescue me.  I had sucked it up, showered, shampooed, dressed myself up, and taken on the daunting task of handling some 700 congregants with seating, the collection, and finally, getting them to receive Holy Eucharist in some semblance of order in the school cafeteria.  Meanwhile, there were at least a dozen male ushers over at the concomitantly held mass in the church, across the parking lot.  They had barely looked up from their jawing away with each other, when I asked, in vain, for a little assistance at the cafeteria mass.   And now, alone at Christmas for the first time in my life, I was chastised, for all to see and hear, by monsignor, because I wasn't gettin' 'er done to his liking. 

That was it.  Since the floor failed to swallow me up at that moment of humiliation, I grabbed my coat and purse, fled from mass, without even taking Communion myself, got into my car, and rushed home and under the covers of my bed.  I cried in the dark, praying for a sleep from which I would not awaken.  But I did wake up.  The next morning, and the morning after that.  And sometime during that dark Christmas week, I knew I had two choices.  I could stay in bed forever, or I could get up. 

What I needed was a plan.  Because in my youth, I might have heard something like: "Snap out of it. You're young.  You've got your whole life ahead of you." 

But what do you tell someone at 62?  You don't.  You can't. I had to figure it out myself. So I invented my own "boot camp" that addressed every facet of my life -- physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.  I had to start every day with a just-out-of-bed selfie to gauge my overall state of mind, body and spirit.  From there, I had to chart the specifics of my day --how I slept, what I ate, what I weighed, what I did, what I read, what I viewed, and what I learned. 

Christmas Eve 2014 - Not an easy photo to take
 

And wherever I found myself -- in unbearable Louisiana heat or a blinding Wisconsin blizzard, below sea level, or in the Virginia mountains, I had to walk a minimum of one hour a day, outdoors.  Sometimes by light of day, but later, quite regularly, well after dark, saying rosaries, "talking" to my dad, gazing at the night sky, and listening to nothing by cicadas, bullfrogs, and crickets.  Typically, about halfway into my trek, I would begin to cry in earnest.  I always marveled that by the end of those 60 minutes, I felt recomposed and cleansed.  I learned to trust the process.

I also decided, in the interests of maintaining optimal clarity, to forego any alcohol for the year.  I'm not much of one for hard liquor, except for a brandy on a cold winter evening, and the appeal of beer is pretty much a cold Corona with a lime during the dog days of summer. But not uncorking a nice dry red while stirring up dinner took a bit of getting used to.  Thankfully, I did discover a palatable non-alcohol wine, which the local wine mart special ordered for me on a regular basis (more on that later).

About a month into this routine, I happened upon a pair of Wolverine steel-toed boots at a local Marshall's.  For the heck of it, I tried them on.  They fit like they'd been cobbled for me, -- a Warrior Cinderella of sorts -- and became my trekking ware. 

Early on, I frequently doubted there being any meaning to my plan.  What was such a big achievement about getting up every day, earning a living as a contract legal analyst, keeping house, charting every facet of my relatively banal existence, and walking outdoors with no thought of distance or speed?  As the days passed, however, I realized that simply continuing to put one foot in front of the other was no small feat -- pun intended. 

During this entire time, I kept quite alone. I left Facebook (my only social media participation), did not contact anyone by any other means, and tended to my day-to-day existence.  The exception were my once-a-week forays into the local dance studio where I taught two back-to-back children's ballet classes. 



My and my gal pals ... We are always the same age inside

 

If I was going to be forced into the company of others, thank God it was with the innocent of heart.  Children and ballet are two of my great loves.  And when they come as a package deal, all the better.

 

I had otherwise pulled back from the world in order to reenter it in a, hopefully, renewed state.   
Somewhere, along the way, I did, in fact, rediscover the joy in life and the youth in my soul and heart.  It was not easy.  I had plenty thrown at me right off the bat, including what I 'affectionately' referred to as the brain-eating eye infection.  It apparently was not as dangerous as it looked, but it recurred half a dozen times in 6 months, in defiance of a battalion of eye drops. And no, I am NOT going to insert a photo of THAT.  You'll just have to ... 

And by early June 2015, this is how I emerged:



See?  Miracles do happen.  Even at 62.

It was right about this time that I thought it might be time to see if I could 'take my happiness on the road' -- that is, was I strong enough to leave my safe little world in Small Town Louisiana and mingle with the world a bit?  An old grad school friend was teaching a 6-week children's literature course on creating picture book biographies at our alma mater  This appealed to me a great deal because although I have written for children, I view myself primarily as a journalist.  And I'd long been searching for a structure for a biography I was interested in writing about Maureen Daly, the pioneer of the Young Adult genre of modern American literature.  Apparently, in recent decades, biographies written for children are not the dry stuff of old, but now have a scrapbook style to them, with photos, maps, and other visuals that break up the printed content.  Even better, such books have a crossover audience, in that they are equally appealing to advanced young readers as well as to adults. 

 

My plan was to audit the class and reconnect with my friend, with whom I would take long meandering walks in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, catching up on each other's lives over the past few years.  I brought along my trusty trekking boots, and the night I arrived in Chattanooga, better than halfway to Roanoke, I had a quick snack of peanut butter and stoned wheat crackers, then laced up and walked about the grounds of the Hampton Inn.  Two hours later, just about ready to turn in for the night, I became violently ill.  No details from me here.  Again, you will just have to: 

To say that was unnerving would be an understatement.  I have lived as a (relatively) confident single woman but I was shaken in the midst of that episode.  I wondered, in my exhausted and weakened state, what would happen if this did not abate soon.  What if I had to have the hotel call an ambulance?  Who would pack up my things for me in the hotel, so that I wasn't charged another $260 a night?  Who would get me back to the hotel from the hospital?  I wished at that moment for a husband, a significant other -- someone who loved me enough to drive 8 hours to take over in my hour of misery.  That thought stayed with me long after that -- that we aren't meant to suffer through such events alone.

 

My stomach eventually calmed down, and I got about three hours of anxious sleep.  The next morning, I had serious misgivings about proceeding to Roanoke, just five more hours away.  I called three girlfriends -- two in Louisiana, and one in Virginia, and left voicemails for each.  I just wanted to talk to a calming voice of reason.  I meanwhile reluctantly loaded the car up and drove almost an hour before I received a call back.  I pulled off the interstate and into a Taco Bell parking lot where I told my Virginia writer friend what happened the night before, that I no longer felt good or confident about my plans to stay on campus for the next six weeks.  All of a sudden, I did not relish the thought of eating out of a mini fridge in a dorm room, or hauling my dirty clothes across campus to the Laundromat.   I was also 'freaking' with the thought that I might have suddenly developed a peanut allergy which could reoccur.  Maybe my newfound confidence and joy were not as strong as I thought. 

 

In the next few minutes, my wonderful friend told me about a similar experience she had.  She had been so sure of attending something, somewhere, for some good reason.  And she also 'freaked' within hours of her arrival. All she knew was that she wanted her husband to come and get her ASAP.  She couldn't explain it.  She felt embarrassed and humiliated but she followed her feelings out of there.  And shortly after that, she wrote the fastest book she ever penned.  It would be great to see me again, she said, but she completely understood if I needed to turn the car around. 

And so I did.  I spent two weeks back in Louisiana, during which I also underwent allergy testing to assuage any concerns I had about peanuts or any other substance, and after that breather, I did make the trip to campus, spending four completely wonderful weeks there.  The meandering walks I'd yearned to take with my friend turned out to be solitary treks, as her schedule did not allow for her to accompany me, but her class was well worth the trip. 

 

About 10 year ago, I made a new rule for myself.  No more driving on the interstate after dark.  As pleasant as it may sometimes be to drive at night, without glaring sun or heavy traffic, I had defied  the odds for too long, and it just wasn't smart to travel alone during the late hours.  And I had kept this rule.  But coming back to Louisiana from Virginia, I found night falling with perhaps an hour and a half to get home.  After all, it wasn't actually LATE.  It wasn't yet 10 p.m.  I wasn't sleepy.  I wanted to be in my own bed that night.  And I did not want to spend the money on a hotel room so close to my destination. 

 

The "Bumblebee" Before Its Encounter with Hwy 59

I didn't factor into my decision that dark is dark, whether it's 9:30 p.m. or 3:00 a.m.  And it's especially dark on a particular stretch of I-59 in southern Mississippi.   It began to rain, not hard, but that did not help with the already poor visibility.  I will never know what happened on that road.  I was tooling along in my adorable little yellow Honda Fit -- the first new car I ever had, and which I had affectionately termed the "bumblebee."  Happy to be getting home after a productive and enjoyable time. 

 

Suddenly, I heard and felt an enormous BOOM!  I was stunned.  I expected the car to come to an abrupt halt, or for every warning light to appear on the dash panel.  I had never seen anything on the road in front of me.  A glance to the side revealed a truck and several vehicles pulled onto the shoulder.  I  continued to grip the steering wheel in shock, my foot still on the gas pedal.  It never occurred to me to pull over and stop.  It was late, dark, and raining.  I wasn't sleepy but I was tired. It would have been foolish to alight from my car and retrace the last mile on foot to try to ascertain what had impacted my car.  I would not have been able to see anything without entering the roadway on foot.  I could have been hit, abducted, God knows what.  And maybe my car would not have restarted. 

 

So I continued driving and pulled into my driveway close shortly before 11 p.m.  I felt shaken but did what I'd trained myself to do.  Laced up my boots and trekked, finishing my requisite hour by midnight -- just under the gun.  In the next three weeks, I began to experience increasingly horrific pain back pain that began to travel down the back of my legs.  It so happened that I had undergone a lumbar MRI 10 months earlier after tweaking my back while teaching ballet.  So I had a baseline study to compare to a new one, which was a disaster.  My sports medicine doctor shook his head and actually used the word "hanging" to describe my bottom disc. 

 

I can only attribute that "boom" and resultant injury to what must have been the mother of all sinkholes on that highway -- perhaps in an unmarked construction zone.  Subsequently, any plans I had for continuing my journey "back into the world" were now on hold.  I could not drive anywhere. Certainly not to Wisconsin for my high school class reunion or for book research in Maureen Daly's home town.  I had to stay put. 

 

As disappointing -- heck, devastating -- as that was, I had more fortitude than expected.  My previous months of disciplined living had paid off.  I kept up my spirits and my trekking.  At first, those hourly walks were intensely painful and slow.  I did a credible version of FDR's gait, laboriously swinging one leg straight leg forward at a time. 

 

Christmas Card Featuring the Trusty Trekking Boots
 

Not long after this unfortunate event, my mother -- also a lifetime impassioned walker -- was run over, literally, at the age of 88, by a neighbor backing out of her driveway.  That she even survived was miraculous.  Many broken bones in her face and body, including a partially fractured hip.  But no organ damage or head injury.  After an extensive hospital stay, she was to have been transferred from the hospital to at least a year in rehab.  But less than three months from the date of the accident, she was home (now living with a sister), and dancing in the kitchen on Christmas Eve.  She said that she had survived the Great Depression and World War II, and she was not about to let this accident take her out.  So while she was inside, toasting in the New Year, I was outside, trekking faithfully, through unplowed snow.   And later into 2016, nine months after my own accident, I surprised my doctor with a nearly normal lumbar MRI.  

 

If you have read this far, I hope you know that I have relayed all of this to demonstrate that I know a bit about adversity and discipline and conscious happiness.  And that you can find your way out of the whale and back into the world, with your Jonah days behind you, if you have a clean heart, a committed trust in God, and a well worn pair of trekkers.   

 

At least that's what I thought ...