Let it Roar, Let it Roar, Let it Roar

Last Saturday night, I attended a concert by two legendary Motown groups, The Four Tops and The Temptations. The concert was at the Hartford Healthcare Amphitheater in Bridgeport, Connecticut.

The day of the performance, it rained heavily. As we moved closer to showtime, we began to wonder if we should even venture outside into the inclement weather. We were also irked that the amphitheater had not made the decision to cancel the show.

“Listen, if these groups, in which two of the original members are now in their 80s, are willing and able to perform, we can get a little wet to go see them,” I said to my life partner and two friends, who were going with me.

I pulled out a leopard rain jacket in my closet that my dear friend Michelle had gifted me and was ready to rock and “roar.”

After a few setbacks and delays, we finally made it to the theatre, a bit wet and ruffled, and a half hour late. Thankfully, the staff had moved our “outdoor” seating to under the theater’s roof.

Duke Fakir, who is 81, is the last original member of the Four Tops, and the opening act, clearly revealed that his energy does not lack. The band played all of their classic hits, including “Reach Out I’ll Be There,” “I Can’t Help Myself,” and “Baby I Need Your Love.” The crowd sang and danced along; it was as if we didn’t have seats under us.

The Temptations took the stage next, and they performed their greatest hits, including “My Girl,” “Papa Was a Rolling Stone,” and “Just My Imagination.”

Otis Williams, the founder and last surviving original member of the group, at 81 years old was still smooth and powerful after playing with the group for 63 years. The other original band members had tragic endings that included dying by illness, suicide and succumbing to alcoholism as well as drug addition.

Otis and Duke had been through many difficulties in their lives, but they never gave up and because of their tenacity, I was up off my seat, transported in a time machine that cut through orbits of sorrow, heartache and PTSD, only to transport me back to the late 1960s. I remembered feeling the soft cashmere texture under my kid’s bare feet from a white carpet imprinted with lime green leaves at my parent’s colonial. A prominent attorney had replaced the carpet in his house with a new one. He then gifted the old carpet to my proud Ukrainian-born immigrant father, who worked as his landscaper every Saturday after a full week of working his day job. The carpet represented my father’s hard work and determination and was a symbol of his hope for a better future for his family.

Next to my bare, young feet in the hallway, I visualized Brother Paul’s shiny black shoes gleaming in the florescent light. The two of us were dancing to my mom’s console stereo blaring Motown hits. He held up his finely manicured hands for me to admire. I glowed in his pride that beamed from his face knowing he was probably the only kid in our neighborhood who would take the train into New York City to do something so unconventional. But he didn’t care. He dared to be different.

Twisting our hips from side to side, shaking our shoulders, clapping our hands and pounding our feet into the lime green ivy imprinted white carpet, my ten-year-older brother who introduced me to Motown music gave me a newfound freedom. I was freed from the punishing God our family raised us with. I was freed from the bullies at school who made it known that I was not allowed to breathe the same oxygen as them. Freed from teachers who rarely, if every spoke my Americanized name. And I was freed from sitting on a branch of our big oak tree, contemplating a final leap from a world that opened up the way.

Motown music was a means to connect with my brother and to feel like I belonged somewhere. It saved me and gave me faith like nothing else ever did, and that’s how I felt again at the performance last Saturday night.

Otis paused during his performance to address the audience. He told us that he and his band were not the stars. We were. We were the ones who kept them going. He proceeded to thank us for coming out to see them even in the rain. All I wanted to do was yell back at him and say, “And you, you, young fellow in spirit, have kept me going. You truly are a star, a humble one at that. You let it roar.”

As he started singing and dancing, I twisted my hips and shook my body over and over, while revolving flash backs wrapped around me.

By the end of The Temptations’ performance, it stopped raining and the air turned crisp and pure. It felt like anything was possible at any age, under any circumstances, if you never give up on your dreams. We bounced down the street, singing along to the Temptations’ songs, free. With my leopard jacket hugging my body in its warmth and music reverberating in my head, I felt convinced that anything and everything were possible.

^{Faith Muscle}

Awash in Mindfulness and Faith

^{Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels.com}

Last night, I was writing my weekly blog post when I realized how sad I was feeling. I was writing about solemn topics, which is perfectly acceptable, but as the midnight hour approached, the blog post was starting to weigh on me and obnubilated my mood. I decided to switch gears and started to write about something entirely different. By the time I finished the new blog post, I had awakened my funny bone. In one way this was a positive thing; on the other hand, I was a bit annoyed that I was wide awake in the wee hours of the morning. 😂

What inspired the complete turnaround was that earlier in the day, I had read something I had no awareness of: laughter is a way of being mindful; you can even say that it’s a form of meditation. I hadn’t thought of laughter as a form of meditation before, but it makes sense. I mean, if we examine mindfulness: it is the practice of paying attention to the present moment without judgment. When we laugh, we are fully present to the moment. We are not thinking about the past or the future. We are simply enjoying the moment.

Of course, who doesn’t know that laughter is a powerful thing? When we laugh, our bodies release endorphins, which have mood-boosting and pain-relieving effects. Medical studies show that laughter can also help to improve our immune system and cardiovascular health.

The “funny” thing was, the same day that I read about laughter was when an appliance repair person was scheduled to fix our washer. And, of all people, at all times, he turned out to be a pop-in comedian. Oh, that’s right, he wasn’t a comedian, he had “a PhD from Vermont: a Paper Hanging Degree.” 😂

As he was fixing the washing machine, he painted a hysterical picture, sprinkled with a whimsical accent, that conveyed his recent trip to Italy where he drove over 1,500 miles from the southern to northern part of the country. How vividly I saw him sitting cross legged, with a tall, lanky Al Pacino stature, sipping wine in the same chair that he sat in while playing the starring role of The Godfather.

I mean, man, did I have a lot of afternoon mindfulness. I even recalled Tuscany, one of my bucket list places on a list I had nearly forgotten. Suddenly, I was inspired and as if ready to climb the Apennine Mountains, I could taste its fresh legumes, pasta and cheese (I no longer eat meat). I felt the beaming smiles of its friendly people. Inhaling its burst of sweet oxygen made me feel hopeful and optimistic. I realized that I could live with the limp of PTSD, and a number of other limitations, but still inch my way forward – or if need be, press the “restart” button.

Through all my thoughts and feelings, toppling over with humor, I even learned how to load the washing machine properly so it (hopefully) wouldn’t break down again.

Anyway, I started to think more and more about laughter and our comedian-appliance guy, and realized how we connected through the funny side of life. (Although I wouldn’t want his mom in Portugal to hear how he described her as having a big, square wine barrel body, a heavy mustache crowning her lips and nylon stockings that she tied in knots at her knees! 😂)

I started thinking that if laughter could connect people, then it could be a way to connect to something much bigger – bigger than ourselves. Whether we call it a higher power, God, or “All There Is,” there is something bigger than ourselves, such as the Apennine Mountains, that we are all connected to. And when we laugh, I believe we are acknowledging that connection. We begin to open up to the joy and wonder of life while expressing our gratitude for all that we have.

Anyway, not to sound too esoteric, leave it to the appliance guy to reinforce that the best medicine – and meditation – really is laughter. After a roller coaster of a weekend, it took his humor to level me. Switch things around and jump start a blog I had not planned on writing.

There is no doubt that laughter can help us find hope in the midst of despair. In this way, laughter can act like a tip-top washing machine, cleansing our saddened hearts and minds with its healing power.

^{Faith Muscle}

Stop “Shoulding”

Have you ever had an experience with someone who seems to know you better than you know yourself? That’s how I feel when I encounter my neighbor Eli Louise who constantly seems to fold herself into my stratosphere like a bur on your ankle socks that you can’t loosen no matter how hard you pull at it. She has no idea about me or my life, but within seconds after running into her yesterday, she was setting forth directives that she deemed were tailored to my needs.

A.YOU should retire. B. YOU should sell your house. C. YOU should move into a condo.

I work hard not to take Eli Louise personally. She “shoulds” all over everyone she meets.

Before I offered a reply to her momentous pronouncements, I felt the solid ground beneath my feet. I looked her in the eyes. To summarize what I said, it basically amounted to something like people who feel out of control internally often try to regain a sense of control by controlling the people and situations around them.

After I said this, she immediately shifted the conversation to lamenting about the people she had met the previous weekend. Fortunately, I managed to escape the situation and her tornado of toxicity.

Surprisingly, gratitude managed to penetrate my ruffled state. I realized that despite her attempts to sound superior, I knew that I was the one who was truly fortunate. She may have thought she was the one reaping the benefits of wealth and retirement, but I had a different perspective. I intrinsically knew that true peace of the mind could not be bought or obtained through the material world. True peace is an inner state of being that must be cultivated from within.

How? By making a conscious choice and decision on a daily basis to stay close to our true selves, away from the chaos of everyday life. It also helps to stay clear of those who “should” all over us. They are not helpers. They distract us from what truly matters by flooding us with their own insecurities.

And so, there I was after my brief encounter, feeling pressured to feel “I should” live up to certain standards of success and happiness. In my fury, I planned to write a seething blog post about Eli Louise and describe the indignation of being judged by a self-righteous person, and how it felt infuriating and demoralizing. I also wanted to explore why judgmental people are only a reflection of themselves and how to deal with them.

But then I asked myself, “WHY? WHY invest the time and energy to focus on negative forces?”

I mean, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by the Eli Louises in the world. However, with a little faith, we can shift our perspective and fill our lives with meaning instead of siphoning our spirits with the “shoulds.”

Besides writing a blog post focused solely on my negative emotions regarding Eli Louise, I decided how I could incorporate my feelings and use them as an opportunity for personal growth. However, I procrastinated and put off writing by going on FB, which I rarely do and, lo and behold, I found the following image that perfectly encapsulated the next steps for me to take.

The rest of the day I spent in a scavenger hunt style, combing through the trash and panning for gold – the things that truly matter in my life, such as writing this blog post as I wore my Bombas socks that my childhood friend, Anna, had sent me as a “Just Because” gift this past winter. Sipping a freshly brewed cup of steaming coffee that was so pure, I easily imagined the smooth beans cooling my palms as I held the cup in my hands.

I was further rewarded to get to bask in the sun’s rays in my home office and feel the sturdy winds from the open window that moved around me – forces at work in the world that reminded me how they were beyond my control. The realization made me appreciate the beauty of nature, and its power to bring a sense of solitude and peace to my life – even without the luxury of retirement.

^{Faith Muscle}

Consequences of ❤️ Love

_{Photo by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash}

Another one of the things that my mentor, Kelly, whom I wrote about two weeks ago in a blog post, taught me is that tragedy transforms people into one of two personality types:

1.) Bitter and resentful. These are the people who have a need to be right and view the world as a place of injustice, where they are unfairly treated.

OR,

2.) Faithful and grateful. These folks need to feel connected to something bigger than themselves, whether it be God or nature.

Few people, if any, who survive tragedies, Kelly emphasized, end up with a lukewarm or neutral attitude towards life.

I agree that tragedy typically shakes you up in one direction — or another. Bernice is a woman who is a example of this belief. In fact, she exhibits the polar opposite traits of Kelly’s.

Bernice’s then 21-year-old daughter was diagnosed with a brain tumor in the 1980s. Eleven months after her diagnosis she died, leaving Bernice and her husband to grieve for their only child.

The loss of a child is one of the most heart-wrenching tragedies that can occur in a person’s life. Whereas few, if any, parents can “move on” from this type of grief they can “move with it” and, typically, learn to find a place for it inside themselves, as if it is a massive piece of permanent furniture. In the process, they can fall into one of the two aforementioned categories.

In Bernice’s case, while grieving her daughter, she ended up fitting category #1. Not to minimize her horrible set of circumstances, but, to this day, it’s easy to spot Bernice anywhere she goes; she’s the one with the sour, lemon-face expression. She’s also quick to lash out and blame others when something, anything, goes askew.

Actually, after her daughter died, she blamed the doctors and medical staff as well as her then husband. Needless to say, her marriage dissolved and she and her husband divorced within a year’s time. Luckily for her, the divorcee met another divorcee, Ernie, a few years later. He was calm, patient and understanding of Bernice’s struggles. Bernice felt he understood her better than anyone else, and she felt calmer around him.

The problem, though, stemmed from her being a bossy, nasty stepmother to his three daughters, who were adolescents at the time. Opposite of their own birth mother, who was understanding and balanced in her parental approach, Bernice was strict and demanded perfection. She forbid them from dating boys or going out with friends, because she felt the only way they would succeed in life was to be focused on school. Ernie did not interfere with his second wife’s method of running the household. In this way, he could focus on his high-profile copywriter position for a large marketing agency.

On the other hand, Bernice’s ability to find a work-personal life balance was easier since she worked full-time in a far-less stressful environment then he did. Plus, Ernie willingly accepted his wife’s “parenting skills” of always telling his daughters what to do and how to do it, because he felt her motive aligned with his: helping his children grow up into good, responsible adults.

The sisters started to rebel against the rules of their stepmother, which led to a chaotic and difficult situation for Ernie. His daughters likely sensed what Ernie did not. Bernice had no control over herself and her tragic past. Unable to find peace in herself, she was an egotistical, unruly stepmother who created her own personal war in her husband’s family. The tactic was a great distraction for what mattered the most — sitting in her pain and taking responsibility for herself.

Basically, Bernice’s approach was the EXACT opposite of Kelly’s step-mother approach. I wrote about the positive building blocks that Kelly achieved in her relationship with her step kids in my previous blog post, but what do you think happened to Bernice’s stepfamily? Yep. It fell apart. It got to the point where Bernice gave Ernie an ultimatum: “It’s either me or your daughters!” Needless to say, although his daughters were heartbroken, Ernie abandoned them and instead, choose to be with Bernice. From there, for decades, the couple fell off the radar of family and friends.

Fast-forward to over thirty years later. The revelation of losing his own daughters caused Ernie to experience feelings of guilt and loss and he wondered if this was his wife’s desired intent. It made sense since, in this way, he could feel sad and grief-stricken in the same way she did. The more he thought about it, the clearer things became. He escaped his resentments and own guilty feelings by having extramarital affairs. Bernice, on the other hand, coped with the turbulent marriage by numbing her feelings with alcohol. Not long after, their marriage ended in a bitter, costly, miserable divorce.

Bernice has always been angry, but now she has reached her limit. She lives in her own small apartment rental and, apart from her kind-hearted brother who checks in on her every so often, she is left to fend for herself. Her only friend, at least as far as she is concerned, is alcohol.

Ernie is still playing the field, but slowly, very slowly trying to mend bridges with his daughters who carry their own load of anger, resentment and hurt toward their father.

Bernice and Ernie remind us that we all want to believe that there are things we can count on to make us happy, but life is not like that and neither is love.

Loss can be devastating and leave people feeling helpless in its wake. It can feel like a tornado has swept away everything familiar and left nothing intact. The question is:

1.) Do we shut ourselves off from all love if we fear the cruel twister of loss? In some cases, yes. (In the manner that Bernice did and, in a different way, how Ernie did.)

OR,

2.) Do we dare travel the open road with courage and an accepting heart while navigating uncertainty? (In the manner Kelly did.)

Do you choose, #1 or #2?

Don’t let anyone kid you, love is always a choice. All it takes is a little faith — or none at all. It’s in your pocket. Dig deep within you to release the strength you will need to walk your unique path and keep your eyes forward to meet the twists, turns and obstacles head on; remembering always, the best lesson in courage is not a lesson. It’s how you take life in stride.

because you take your life in stride

because you take your life in stride
Because you take your life in stride (instead
of scheming how to beat the noblest game
a man can proudly lose, or playing dead
and hoping death himself will do the same)

because you aren’t afraid to kiss the dirt
(and consequently dare to climb the sky)
because a mind no other mind should try
to fool has always failed to fool your heart

but most (without the smallest doubt) because
no best is quite so good you don’t conceive
a better, and because no evil is
so worse than worst you fall in hate with love
-human one mortally immortal i
can turn immense all time’s because to why

– e.e. cummings

Faith Muscle

Cat’s Meow 🐱 2023

_{June; deaf but doesn’t know it! Rescued from Alabama}

_{Gemini “Gemi”; the first rescue who “rescued us}“

Since our family tragedy, my mind has a tendency to race when I drive. Let’s put it this way, the average person has about 12,000 to 60,000 thoughts a day, but when I’m driving, 15 minutes or more down the road, probably a day’s worth of thoughts burst into my brain that amount to something likened to a hefty slice of the milky way.

I am beyond grateful that my daughter moved closer to home last August. So is she, because at the beginning of the month, as the world heralded in 2023, my daughter and her friends went on a long weekend escape, and I drove over 40-minute stretches one way for four days in a row to spend the day with her two fur baby rescue cats.

In my mind, the coming new year simply reinforced how the world continues to move on. In the revelers’ mental “crystal balls” they foresaw job promotions, reunions, trips, graduations and so many bright future possibilities. Over three years ago, I was part of this group. Now, I lack a crystal ball and determination. All I know is that it amounts to another lost year without my son. Another year in which I will strain a little bit harder to recall his deep voice, his silly smile, the way he glowed and his thick eyelashes fluttered when I assured him of his impending millionaire status by the time he turned 40.

Another year … another year … was my highway song this past New Year’s weekend.

“Did you stay up until midnight?” My daughter asked me in a text on the morning of January 1st.

I didn’t have the heart to inform her that, no, I was unloading laundry from the dryer at around midnight, trying to erase killer thoughts and staying to myself because I didn’t want to hinder anyone’s festive mood.

New Year’s Day evening rolled around, and I came home from the fur babies after a particularly disturbing exchange of “highway talk.” I sulked, sad and silent until I picked up my phone and saw an IM from my cousin in Ukraine, wishing me Happy New Year.

At first, I thought she contacted me for the sole reason of informing me of the arrival of the package. In actuality, she simply sent a wish: Happy New Year, my dear family.

No strings attached to her greeting. She didn’t receive the package, but she still cared enough to take the time out of her war-savaged world to wish me a happy New Year.

Now, I found something else to worry about. The package. Was it lost? Stolen? I mean, there is a war going on after all.

On January 2, I received the following IM:

I received your package today. I can’t express the joy of my children!!! I am very grateful to you for so many things!!! Everything is very good. one jacket was small for my son, and the boots were small for my daughter, everything else fit!!! I sincerely thank you, your friends. this is a very big help for me

Suddenly, 2023 came into full view by examining one sugar cube out of the big, bad bowl of unknowns.

Was I feeling better? Yes and no. I do best when I don’t judge ANY of my feelings, because my feelings remind me that I am a human being, a work in progress. Off or on the highway, it’s important for me to recognize the gravity of a situation and work through my feelings in order to move forward. NOTE: “Move forward” in this case does not mean “let go” of the grief because, as others have noted: we grieve because we love. (How lucky is that? LOL!) Moving forward, in this case, means to step through each day and be true to myself by allowing my feelings — whatever they are and for however long they exist. I consciously worked on this process for nearly 40 years, and what I’ve most definitely learned is that no one feeling will last forever (at least in my case). In addition, each and every time I sit with whatever feeling I am experiencing, I am stronger and more confident. The more I build myself up in this way, the less I have to tear others down. I am at peace in the world.

Feeling good all the time, FOR ME, is toxic positivity. It doesn’t work. I tried it in my early 20s and failed miserably. I remember when at 25 years old, I was out of control and a mess of emotions, because I always stuffed them behind a happy face. I couldn’t differentiate one emotion from another. How could I when I erased all my so-called negative feelings? My first newfound emotion was utter rage. (It makes sense to me now, because how else was I going to feel after having my identity robbed?) The day arrived when a mentor advised, “Embrace it. Embrace the rage.”

At first, I thought she was crazy. Then I decided I would try it. Day after day, I locked myself in the safety of my car and just hollered and screamed. That was my way to embrace the unwelcomed turbulence in my mind and before I knew it, it diminished in size and lost its demonic proportions. In other ways, over many years, I proceeded to deal and integrate other feelings and emotions. I embraced the pain. Embraced the sadness. Embraced the sorrow. Embraced everything else.

Before long, I could breathe normally again, and even learned to embrace the joy and the laughter, which I had felt guilty over. Suddenly I realized I could embrace the newness of a situation. Embrace the familiarity of old sheets, newly washed and calling for my tired body.

Mind you, embracing all this messy stuff wasn’t accomplished in a chronological or logical sense. I remember a lot of laughter while experiencing some of the most challenging, pent up feelings.

I consider myself fortunate in so many ways. Since I was 25, I learned how to embrace my messiness, because “my healers” embraced me during the process. I was never too messy to not be loved.

Maybe during the 1980s, folks were more in tune with their emotions. These days it seems no one wants to hear a sour puss or a sad puss or someone who isn’t happy and a great success through and through. Maybe it started with the inception of Fakebook when we lost our personal intimacy and human humility. Anyway, I’ve lost most of my early “healers” who loved every single bit of “the messy” I presented. I am grateful for their legacy, because it carries me and keeps me in balance.

“It’s okay,” I tell myself as I embrace what feels like but really isn’t the lowest of lowly emotions.

“It’s okay,” I tell myself when I feel I “shouldn’t” feel joy at a given moment, like when my grand fur babies are purring alongside me. “It’s okay,” I tell June, the deaf fur baby who chewed up my slippers. I can empathize with her anxiety. (Later, I found out it was Gemi who did it!)

“It’s okay,” I reiterate. (Before the tragedy I wouldn’t have been so understanding.)

I don’t need a crystal ball to see if it’s going to be another year of trials and tribulations, haunting memories and sorrow. It’s going to be up and down and all around, and with each passing day, I grow a day closer to the raw truth of my death. Even if I could have a crystal ball, I’d resist. Through it all, those wise owls that were once in my life gifted me with the priceless notion of faith. It’s made me into a big, bad mama, and I’ll take the ride flying solo, ‘cause I CAN, damn it. This is what I have learned. It is my proud culture pumping in my blood. In essence, I’m a born coward, yet biting the bullet, closing my eyes, taking baby steps into the landmine of life. I can do it, I can do it. Here I go, watch me.

_{Photo by Iu015fu0131l Agc on Pexels.com}

_{Faith Muscle}

BE-lieve

Faith Muscle

🌊 Is that you, Beach Lady? 🌊

_{Photo by Denitsa Kireva on Pexels.com}

Butterfly season is winding down. When I go outside to pick tomatoes in the garden, even on the high-temperature days, I feel a lack of warmth in the air, and it’s not only because we are headed into autumn. I search around the perimeter of the yard as if I am a grammar school kid waiting for my neighborhood buddy to meet up and play.

In my case, I await the “Painted Lady,” but she has disappeared. I suppose she already migrated south to Mexico, although I wish she stayed around just a little longer. I had become accustomed to my daily garden visitor. I’ve never really paid much attention to butterflies until I met this one. She was fearless. A few times when she orbited near my face, she startled me. Each time I went outside, I began to long for her peaceful presence. Her delicious tangerine-colored body made me yearn for a ripe summer fruit. The white spots and black markings on her wings drew me in further. It was as if I were stalled from my daily routine and, instead, standing inside an art gallery, meditating on a painting’s technique and imagery. Her appearance awakened my senses as if they were young and keen again.

One day in mid-July, I had a sudden feeling of recognition at the sight of her. “Is that you, Beach Lady?”

Could the Painted Lady possibly be a reincarnation of the Beach Lady, an extraordinary woman I met in the early 2000s during my travel writing days?

You see, I was working on a story about Amelia Island in Florida and was introduced to MaVynee Betsch. In the same year she was born, 1935, her great-grandfather, A.L. (Abraham Lincoln) Lewis, one of the seven co-founders of the Afro-American Life Insurance Company and Florida’s first Black millionaire, bought the American Beach property on Amelia Island.

As racial segregation and oppression escalated across the United States, A.L. purchased what, thanks predominately to Mavynee’s influence, today is designated as a Florida Heritage Landmark. His vision was to create a beach resort to benefit his company’s executives and also use as a sales incentive for his employees. What’s more, he opened up American Beach to the Black population. In essence, it was a safe haven for the marginalized population to experience sun, respite and fun.

I only spent a weekend with A.L.’s great-granddaughter, but the environmental activist reinforced my views of the preservation of our natural resources. She, too, inspired me to believe that positive outcomes were possible. After all, she had spent a core of her life fighting to preserve and protect a historically African-American beach on Florida’s Atlantic coast. She additionally provided me with enough food for thought to help fill my insatiable appetite for American history.

When I first met the Beach Lady, as she was lovingly called, she lived predominately in a trailer on the property where she was as much a fixture as the land she loved, a diamond by the sea. The most unique diamond that I can imagine. Actually, she preferred to wear shell and beach stone-themed jewelry, and when she walked, she rattled.

Whenever I picture her crease-less face with her hair packed on the top of her head like a solid soup tureen and free falling dreadlocks down past her ankles, I first remember her sandy, bare feet. Her dark toes were full of the contrasting light-colored American Beach sand. The little shells wrapped around her ankles were as distinct as the bold orangy colors that draped her body. Her statement was loud and clear in the many button pins, including political and pro-vegetarianism, attached to her hair and clothing. Her ageless-aging process was an example that builds me up as I now watch liver spots form near the palms of my hands. When, for example, I dare to go against convention and wear my rose tinted, lizard-patterned boots that shout “totally inappropriate for my age,” the Beach Lady’s legacy fuels every step in my soles.

Her six-foot height along with her over foot-long nails curling from her fingers on one hand matched her big, beautiful personality. Everything about her was as natural as the sun, sea and sky. For over 20 years, she allowed her hair to grow without touching up the grays or cutting any of it. Some of her tresses, in fact, measured over seven-feet long. Her stretched-to-the sky fingernails proved the point that things could have natural, healthy growth without any meat protein.

“All I want is to be reincarnated into a butterfly,” she announced to me on numerous occasions.

A few years later, I learned that the Beach Lady died from cancer at the age of 70 in 2005. She was posthumously honored as an Unsung Hero of Compassion by the Dalai Lama in the same year.

So nearly twenty years after meeting her in person, I suddenly see a bright and beautiful butterfly greeting me at every turn. Is it possibly her in a new form front and center in my backyard? Did she get her wish? If anyone should have been granted everything she wished for, it was MaVynee Betsch.

All summer long, every time I spotted the butterfly, I couldn’t help but inquire out load, “Is that you, Beach Lady?”

Whether it really was the Beach Lady reincarnated into a butterfly or my pure imagination or not, the Painted Lady gave me a little faith to realize that when we are beaten down to soil level proportions, sometimes all we need is a flutter of hope to defy gravity.

_{Faith Muscle}

Tomat-🍅OHs

Building on the blog post I wrote on August 16, when it comes to growth and allowing the process of life (and death) to happen organically both in the garden and in the daily human arena, I pondered the faith lessons that our tomato plants have taught me over these past three years.

As I mentioned in the post, historically, my brown thumb has sat me on the sidelines, safely away from any kind of gardening endeavors. My roomie, Pat, is a master gardener and about three summers ago planted on the side of the house a few starter heirloom tomato plants that Brother Paul, another master gardener, gifted to us.

Shortly after, on one of our walks, we arrived home loaded down with additional starter pots of tomato plants that one of the neighbors generously left on the curb in front of her house and marked “FREE.” Pat added them to the garden and spent the beginning of the summer watering and weeding the starter plants. I played the role of interested bystander. My distance was due to my paranoia about causing any harm to the harvest.

By August, even though my brown thumb was not guilty of the results, the harvest was sparse and the fruits of Pat’s labor were on the sour side. Maybe, I stated to Pat, the soil is bad. I mean, “it’s never given life to anything but weeds before you moved in.”

The following summer found us both on a tomato-growing craze. Pat planted another row of tomato plants from my brother in the same spot as she had done the prior summer. I focused my loyalties indoors and grew cherry tomato plants in my AeroGarden. I’ve used the hydroponic system for nearly a decade. It is a simple and nearly brainless gardening experience, invented for brown thumbs like me.

My military green-colored leaves and stems grew like burly soldiers, but did not produce more than a couple cherry tomatoes. I decided to take the risk and transplanted the cherry tomatoes on the side of the house along with Pat’s Early Girl, Big Beef and Roma tomato varieties.

Heeding to my brother’s advice, I also purchased a set of three self-watering tomato planters, complete with burlap and other thingamajigs. The planters are intended to set you free from “weeding, creating a watering schedule or figuring out the right soil composition.”

At summer’s end, my brother may have had terrific success with them over the years, but for us, the venture turned out to be a dud. In fact, I gladly got rid of them, putting the self-watering tomato planters smack center into Brother Paul’s green-thumbed hands. The rest of the harvest in the garden was, unfortunately, mediocre and the tomatoes tasted sour again.

I was stumped. I couldn’t figure out why the rest of the world seemed to grow super sweet, healthy tomatoes, and ours failed. I think Pat felt the same way. This summer, she only planted three small tomato plants, compliments of my brother, and, apart from watering, we basically turned our backs on the rocky patch of soil.

As the summer rolled on, out of the blue, I noticed what I first thought were weeds poking out of the garden. Incredulously, I took a closer look only to see about a dozen additional tomato plants sprouting. How? I suddenly realized that they were growing on their own from seeds unintentionally left from last year’s tomatoes.

For the last three years, we caressed, cared, toiled and fought hard with the earth, but it did not provide us with the rewards we deserved from the efficacy in our efforts. This year, we threw in the hoe, and our little military-green leafed soldiers stand tall and proud. Everyday when I pick the generous harvest, I drop a cherry tomato into my mouth. The warm burst of flavor transports me back to my youth. I spent summers wandering gardens that looked as if they were straight out of award-winning, artistically rendered fairy tales. Standing on the dirt, I’d sample my dad’s winning loot, sweet like cotton candy and as juicy as watermelon dripping down my mouth.

The faith lessons that I have learned from my homegrown tomatoes are that faith is a gift and a fruit that can grow abundantly even in the rockiest terrain. The secret is not to give up on hope. All you need, too, is a smidgen of it. The size of a mustard seed will do.

_{Faith Muscle}

Chef-Curated Birthday Recipes

I had visions of spending my birthday yesterday dug deep in the latest book I am reading by one of my favorite authors. Snacking on reduced-fat cheese doodles, listening to the yelping contest between the two tiny mutts that live in the big colonial behind us.

As a prologue of things to unwrap, three days before the “Big Day,” my dear blogger friend Alec had remembered about my upcoming birthday and sent sweet greetings.

“Alec,” I wanted to reply, “thanks for remembering, but I’m trying to forget.”

It’s not that I did not appreciate his reaching out. It’s that I’ve always experienced conflicting feelings about my birthdays. When I was young, the date emphasized my state of detached reality. “Ungraceful aging” became the theme as time marched on. Nearly three years ago, of course, my birthday signaled hot rods of pain, loss and the idea of “unhappy endings” trumping “happily ever after.” It was the time that I temporarily deactivated my Facebook page because the “Fakebook” well-wishers only exasperated the grief.

What’s remained consistent is the two twins I recalled every year that were in my grammar school, Terry and Jerry. Out of 32 kids in our classroom, our trio was excluded from birthday celebrations during the school year. My birthday was August 22 and their birthday was August 23.  As luck would have it, all the other students’ birthdays fell within, or close enough, to the school year to celebrate. Each month we watched sad-eyed on the sidelines as a classmate celebrated a birthday during a particular week and delighted in song, praise and the biggest slice of cake out of the class, topped off with a spanking brand-new pencil to bring home.

These last few years, in fact, as my birthday approaches, it feels like the alarm goes off when my mind remembers Terry and Jerry’s longing eyes. The image kicks me into an impending feeling of despair. It helps, though, when I bring to mind one of my dearest friends, Michelle, a relatively young, quite recent widow, who always made it a point to say that the “big dates” that grievers anticipate on the calendar end up to be much more manageable and right-sized once the actual day unfolds.

The Saturday before the big day, my memory became ripe with regrets and remorse. Early in the week, Brother Paul insisted he and my sister-in-law, Diane, take me and my daughter out for dinner on Sunday and, even though I told him countless times that I wanted to “keep a low profile,” I acquiesced to their invitation.

“I’m reading a wonderful book. I really don’t have the time.” I didn’t think my excuse would fly and did not try and renege on the date.

Sunday afternoon rolled around and we gathered at a privately owned Italian restaurant. Three hours later, we peeled ourselves from our seats. In other words, I can’t remember a better time I’ve shared in an awful long time. I don’t think it was anything in particular about the conversation. It was more about being in sync and in the present moment. It was a bite into a slice of zen, a delightful, full-bodied flavor. It was the kind of meal that left you full, satisfied and met your needs beyond your belly.

Yesterday, wouldn’t you know it, my daughter took the entire day off from work.  If I had known, I would have stopped her. To backtrack, my birthday morning started with my gastroenterologist’s (the word rolls off your tongue as part of the aging process) office calling to change my October appointment.

After a few seconds on the phone, the doctor’s administrator announced, “There’s a picture of a birthday cake in front of your name in the chart. Happy birthday!”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Happy birthday!” the woman said louder.

“Thank you!” I replied, mirroring her sharp ding.

Then I received an IM birthday greeting from a random woman I barely know who always signs up for get-rich-schemes and tries to get me on board (without avail). I was amazed she reached out without trying to sell me something. The next IM birthday greetings came from relatives in Ukraine.  

When I checked my email, I was flooded with free computer screen downloads from the Pillsbury Doughboy who sent them to me as a birthday gift. I also received a flood of birthday coupons from retail stores and fast food chains. Too bad the Boston Market near us recently went out of business.

My friend, Camille, dropped by with fresh yellow roses and a beautiful card. My roomie gifted me a lovely blouse and another sentimental card that was added to the other make-you-cry-happy tears collection from my brother, daughter, niece and her husband. I also received a string of text messages from my fiance and the rest of the fam in Jersey.

Last night, I sat in my fave restaurant with my daughter and roomie and the minute I whispered, “I just really wanted to keep a low profile,” the waiter and the restaurant staff appeared with a blazing sparkler that was so fierce, it scared me, and I almost slipped off my chair. Afterwards, we dug into homemade cake and desserts.

Four hours we nested at the restaurant, together doing another helping of zen and life and digging into the moment, because that’s all we had in front of us. The best part about the experience was that it was uncurated. Instead, it flowed natural, unrefined without GMOs, in the purest form, and if this isn’t the recipe for faith, then I don’t know what is. After all, the plate in front of me carried the clear signature of a Great Chef.

_{Faith Muscle}

Lessons from “O”

For years, I was bent on orchid ownership. Week after week, I wandered around as a distant observer in the floral aisle at our local Trader Joe’s. Once my intimidation dissipated, I’d move in closer to examine one of the deep-green leafed plants displaying round faces of velvety violet, white and beige-colored tones. The minute the icy cold surface of the ceramic white container penetrated the palms of my hands, the exotic orchid went right back to its proper position on the display shelf lightly sprinkled with dirt.

I hid my brown-thumbed hands deep in my pockets, and my skittishness left me darting in a straight-as-an-arrow direction toward the dairy aisle as if I had a sudden hankering for a 5.3 ounce tub of non-fat Greek Yogurt. I picked up my yogurt, moved swiftly to the checkout aisle and made my escape out of the store.

Having limited faith in my orchid care abilities, I was determined to build up my confidence. There seems to exist an association for nearly everything under the sun and, sure enough, on the internet I discovered the American Orchid Society. 

If you sign up, you are gifted with a free orchid magazine, Orchid.

“In print since 1932, this magazine is treasured by tens of thousands of readers around the world.”

I knew I had come to the right place when I found a section earmarked for “beginning orchid growers.” It said, “If you are anxious to get going with orchids, check our quickstart guide to orchid culture, ORCHIDS 101. This article will give you an understanding of what is required for growing these marvelous plants!”

Pushing beyond my anxiousness, I learned everything I could about the sweet-faced anomaly until I felt empowered enough to take on the challenge of adopting one. About two weeks after Google brought me to the orchid society’s web page, I picked up an inexpensive flowering white orchid from Trader Joe’s and brought it home.

In the first two years, I received a gamut of advice from an assortment of orchid experts.

“Don’t wet the leaves! It’s fatal!”

“Don’t over-water! It’s fatal!”

“Put an ice cube on the top of the pot’s soil. Don’t touch the leaves. Don’t water it directly. It’s fatal!”

“Don’t keep it in direct sunlight. It’s fatal!”

Over the orchid’s last four-year life cycle, I am the first to admit that someone else should have taken custody of my orchid from the moment it came home with me. I confess that plenty of times, I’ve over-watered it. More than once, I’ve left it outside on the deck and forgotten about it until it ended up drenched in rainstorms. Other times, I’ve forgotten about it on the deck, and it was left in direct sunlight for so long that if it were human, it would have been hospitalized for severe sunburn. Other times, weeks passed before I remembered to water it.

Would you believe, four years later, it’s still alive? In fact, every year around the cooler, darker months, it never fails to gift me with a surprise of blossoms.

Through our trials and tribulations, I’ve grown attached enough to the orchid that I’ve determined her to be a female and have named her “O.” As in, “OH! She’s still alive.”

O’s life cycle brings credence to some of my mom’s favorite adages:

In this case, “You can do it all wrong, and it ends up all right.” (On the other side of the token she would say, “You can do it all right, and it ends up all wrong.”)

Recently, one of my fellow bloggers was discussing the idea of “what is for us cannot miss us.”

I had never heard that phrase before. In regards to my orchid, it was meant to stay alive and no one, not even a brown-thumbed mama was going to change the course of its life span.

It lives!

Now, that I’ve said that, it has taken a bad turn and it may be dying! Seriously. In the last two weeks, its leaves are falling off, and it has taken on a skeletal appearance. In fact, if it were a human, I think we’d be headed to the nearest ER for some oxygen therapy.

Time, of course, will tell. Orchid magazine and the society can no longer help me in this rescue attempt.

I do know that my O reminds me of an important life lesson in faith. Life will happen sometimes in the weirdest, most shocking and unfair and sometimes unrelated ways to our plans as possible. In other words, when we think we have it all figured out, we are thrown into a dunk tank of life.

This crazy O of mine through the years seems to whisper to me to “Leave it alone. Let things play out. Allow things to happen naturally, organically. Step outside on the deck and breathe. Green thumb, brown thumb or no thumb, have faith that the outcome is ultimately not in your hands.”

_{Faith Muscle}