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


🌶️Beans, Beans, Beautiful 🌶️🌶️Beans

Beans, Beans, Beautiful Beans

Beans, beans, beautiful beans … this year, I hosted Thanksgiving Day dinner and beginning on the Sunday prior to the holiday, my kitchen was not only filled with the aroma of pinto beans, tomatoes, chili powder, cumin and a few other ingredients to create a streaming, steaming array of delicious pots of chili, but also an improvised melody of my singing – beans, beans, beautiful beans to a tune similar to “Skip to My Lou.”

If you live outside of Canada or America, you might not be aware that Thanksgiving’s traditional main dishes of roast turkey and/or baked ham are complemented by common, seasonal side dishes, such as stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, gravy, green beans, cornbread, squash, dinner rolls, cranberry sauce and for dessert, pumpkin pie. To serve chili on the holiday table is something akin to ladling out simmering chicken noodle soup on a hot summer’s day – it doesn’t quite fit.

The first Thanksgiving feast between the native Wampanoag and English settlers, Pilgrims, was in the fall of 1621 in Plymouth, Massachusetts. It’s likely it consisted of venison, fowl (geese and duck), corn, nuts and shellfish. The modern dish we know as chili, also known as chili con carne (chili with meat), comes much later on in American history. “It does appear to have roots in the American West, particularly the State of Texas. An old legend holds that immigrants from the Canary Islands brought a recipe for chili with them when they settled San Antonio in the early 1700s.”

Enough of the history lesson.

“Chili is not supposed to be part of the meal,” my fiance, a pure traditionalist engaged to a pure non-traditionalist, commented with a slightly bemused expression after he realized that my dinner plan was to serve three different versions of chili: spicy hot, mild and vegetarian.

“Well, it is now,” I replied and went back to cooking.

My sister-friend Anne gave me the idea of making chili for Thanksgiving after she sent me a large-sized ziploc bag of dried pinto beans from New Mexico, the state in which she resides, in the care package she sent this past November. They’ve been one of the consistent, individually wrapped gifts that she’s sent in her thoughtful parcels over these last three years. Sometimes she pens notes about the background information of each gift. For instance, she always writes that she travels forty-five minutes one-way to a farm (I don’t remember its name, but it’s a long German-sounding name) to purchase the dried pinto beans. That’s Anne. She packs every little bean of life with a mammoth punch of love.

There’s typically a separate package in each delivery marked “Stacy and Alex” for me and my daughter, as there was this year. Last month we unwrapped two silver angels, a small and large one, inside the recycled brown bag wrapping. Her accompanying note said they caught her view at one of her favorite greenhouses, and they had our names written all over it. All I can say is when you enter my living room, the focal point is the large silver-toned angel in the center of the fireplace’s mantle.

Anne might live across the country, but her creative powerhouse fuels our spirit and reminds us of the good in the world. In fact, in proximity to the silver-toned angel is a gold and pink-colored, three-inch acrylic dragonfly that she sent in her first package, a Christmas package, the tragic year in which we lost our North Star, Alex’s brother and my son. Sorrow blacked out our holiday, and Alex and I were unable to exchange any gifts. Anne’s individually wrapped goodies arrived via first-class mailing service. Inside, she paired the dragonfly with a blue-colored butterfly. On the attached note she explained that a dragonfly represents change, transformation and an understanding of the deeper meaning of life. The butterfly, on the other hand, she noted meant “hope.” To this day when I see the dragonfly in my living room, as well as the butterfly where I placed it in my garage, they give me a sense of faith.

In that particular holiday package were, of course, a large-sized ziploc bag of her “famous” beans .… Beans, beans, beautiful beans ….

Now, let me say one more thing about the darn New Mexico beans. You gotta soak them for days. And slow cook them for hours and hours and hours. Otherwise, they are crunchy. I’m a traditionalist when it comes to eating. I don’t want my beans to have the texture of potato chips. They really are a nuisance to cook. But in the end, it’s so worth it. The process reminds me of how unconditional love can be inconvenient. In the end, though, the chili made with the pinto beans are yummy each and every time, which may or may not be the result of the unconditional time and devotion you give to a human being. Either way, after undergoing the cooking challenge, I’m a better, more disciplined person because my behavior is a reflection of me. One thing certain after the beans are FINALLY cooked, the chili made, my exhausted self looks in the reflection of the mirror and says, “Damn, that was a good job. Stand tall. Stand proud.”

Additionally, in the package this year was a cutting of her fresh organic sage, direct from her garden. I added it to my TRADITIONAL stuffing, and EVERYONE said it was the best stuffing they ever tasted – and it was, thanks to Anne. So, this past Thanksgiving, Anne visited in her own special way, every time I served delicious stuffing and chili.

Almost every night, holidays included, I light one of my candles in Anne’s honor. I started the tradition after she kicked off the ritual for me and my family a little over three years ago during our tragic time. Although we live on opposite sides of the United States, she always feels close by like a woolly blanket.

Don’t kid yourself, love CAN be bought as long as it’s given unconditionally – gift wrap optional.

**

So, what’s the ins and outs of making a great chili bean recipe? A lot of patience if you get dried pinto beans from some faraway farm in New Mexico! No matter what you prefer, add a little cube of unsweetened baking chocolate. It balances out the spices in the dish and makes it rich and satisfying, much like a lifelong friendship.

Mild, Non-Vegetarian Chili 🌶️ made with Beautiful New Mexico Pinto Beans

(you can substitute your own dried or canned beans)

Ingredients:

Dried or canned pinto beans, about a pound or a pound and a half, depending on how many beans you prefer in your chili

2 tablespoons vegetable or olive oil; or non-stick cooking spray

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 large sweet white onion, diced

2 1/2 tablespoons chili powder

3 small cans of tomato sauce

2 teaspoons ground cumin

2 to 4 bay leaves, use less if they are large bay leaves

1 teaspoon parsley

1/4 teaspoon black pepper or cayenne pepper to taste

Squeeze of lime

1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

a dash of pickle juice if you have a jar of pickles on hand (you heard it right!)

Unsweetened baking chocolate,  2 ounces semi-sweet chocolate baking bar

2 cans of evaporated milk

1 carton beef broth (you will use about half of it)

1 to 3 pounds of ground beef (depending on your preference)

Salt to taste

Instructions

If you are using dried pinto beans, soak overnight in water with bay leaves. (With New Mexico bean, I soak them for a minimum of THREE nights and then quick boil before using them in the slow cooker.)

Place oil in a large skillet (I use my cast iron pan) and set to medium-high heat. When the oil glistens, add onions and cook for 2-3 minutes. Next, add garlic and cook for another minute.

Add spices and stir often so they won’t burn.

Turn up the heat to medium and add meat and brown. Once the meat is brown, stir in beans along with bay leaves. Cool. Add to slow cooker. Top with tomato sauce. After tomato sauce is emptied from cans, pour evaporated milk into tomato cans, swirl the liquid around and pour into slow cooker (I don’t waste anything.)  Add beef broth as needed to keep chili moist but not too watery, and chocolate and stir, stir, stir.  Squeeze the lime juice, add balsamic vinegar and, if you are a super creative cook adventurer, pickle juice. Slow cook at least eight hours. Freezes PERFECTLY, so you can enjoy it during the winter months; it will surely warm you up like a wooly blanket of friendship.


Faith Muscle

“Ocean View”🌊 in New Mexico!

Photo Credit: Anne Yoken

While my sister-friend, Anne, who lives in New Mexico, was walking home from the park yesterday, she sent me this photo and she wrote, “… My ocean view. Horizon makes me feel it’s the ocean.”

Anne’s mom was my Godmother, one of the most loving influences in my life. Our families knew each other long before I was born.

Now, for sure, the horizon in the photo DOES resemble a realistic ocean scene even though the shot was taken “deep” in the desert. It is so typical of Anne’s character to find possibility in the impossibility. Needless to say, she’s a positive person, and every season in her life, she stirs up a fresh batch of homemade lemonade that tastes like sunshine. It is the perfect antidote to winter blues and helps lift most emotional downward spirals.

Of course, there’s a prerequisite, though, to making lemonade out of lemons – you need a desire first. Then you act on the motivation, and that’s where faith comes in to help carry out the goal.

No matter what difficulties Anne encountered in life, she always kept her eyes on the horizon to help level her out and not sway too far from walking an even course. In fact, whenever I found myself in Anne’s company, we rarely stared at a new batch of lemons. Instead, we rolled up our sleeves, sliced and squeezed the pulp. In the end, no matter how hot and barren our lives may have felt, we clinked our glasses before we experienced a refreshing taste of lemonade. The sensation invigorated our spirits and gave us the strength to carry forward. Today, whenever, I need a lift, I reach for her treasured lemonade recipe.

“Yes, Anne.” I wrote her back after she shared her photo, “I see your ocean view horizon, and it’s beautiful, full of life and wonder. Cheers to a future of endless possibilities!”

… Maybe I’ll visit Anne and ‘the ocean in New Mexico’ firsthand. We can walk together from the park while we finish the last drops of lemonade from our insulated tumblers, and search for angel figures and heart shapes in the clouds that can be seen, even when the weather is bad, by those who know how to look.”


Faith Muscle

Wish U: Ubuntu

Photo by anna-m. w. on Pexels.com

Last Saturday, November 19, marked the International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day. Each year, the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention honors the day by helping to organize large and small events at different venues around the world. The events connect people who are survivors of suicide loss with mental health professionals, and provide a safe, empowering, empathetic and educational space that supports and exemplifies the value of storytelling and shared experiences.

This year, two-hundred and seventy-one events took place at different sites not only in the United States, but also in Argentina, Australia, Brazil, Canada, Chile, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic, India, Ireland, Italy, Japan, Nepal, Russia, Scotland, Taiwan and South Africa.

The International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day is held on the Saturday before Thanksgiving each year, which, if you think about it, can be viewed as an oxymoron. How can this day, centered around grieving parents, spouses, children and those affected by suicide, be in such close proximity to a holiday that celebrates blessings? What sort of “blessings” can there conceivably be when it involves heartbreaking, unexplained losses, and deaths associated with widespread societal stigmas that oftentimes are hidden below the underbelly of silence and shame?

If we examine Thanksgiving Day itself, one definition of it is “an annual national holiday in the United States and Canada celebrating the harvest and other blessings of the past year. Americans generally believe that their Thanksgiving is modeled on a 1621 harvest feast shared by the English colonists (Pilgrims) of Plymouth and the Wampanoag people.”

Conversely, since 1970, the United American Indians of New England have organized the National Day of Mourning on Thanksgiving Day. “To us, Thanksgiving is a day of mourning, because we remember the millions of our ancestors who were murdered by uninvited European colonists, such as the Pilgrims. Today, we and many Indigenous people around the country say, ‘No Thanks, No Giving.'”

After experiencing our own personal tragedy nine days before Thanksgiving Day of 2019, our personal day of mourning helped me stand, as never before, in solidarity with my indigenous brothers and sisters. “Solidarity” is commonly defined as “unity or agreement of feeling or action.” Ever since our family’s post-tragedy during that “first” Thanksgiving in 2019, each year afterward, I not only acknowledge a feeling of sadness, but I consciously act differently. I make it a point NOT to stuff myself and over-indulge on food, drink or merriment. By nightfall, I direct my eyes at the endless blanket of stars in the night. To me, each star represents those people around the world who have or, at that very minute are, through circumstances beyond their control, forced to leave the comfort of their homes and homelands. In addition, I think about those, now and through history, unjustly serving time in brick and mortar prisons and those trapped in minds of mental illness.

So, anyway, last weekend, five days before this year’s Thanksgiving Day, I feared that attending a suicide loss survivors conference at the Noroton Presbyterian Church could plummet me to the depths of despair.

Coincidentally, the previous week, I watched an incredible movie, Mission: JOY, “a film that shares the humor and wisdom of two of the world’s most beloved icons, His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu.”

The movie kicked off a four-day summit based on Joy. The theme on day two was “The Inseparability of Joy and Sorrow.” In a segment entitled, “Inciting Joy: A Poet’s Perspective with Ross Gay,” Mr. Gay elucidates a number of definitions pertaining to joy. Most apropos for this blog post, he explains that joy “emanates from the tethers between us when we hold each other through our sorrows.”

He continues saying that the definition not only pertains to the concept of grief associated with death, but with other losses as well. The common thread, he says is that “We’re all heartbroken, all of us, and all of us are in the process of dying, as is everything we love.”

Between the conference I attended and, now, heading into Thanksgiving week, I’ve felt a sense of interconnectedness that Mr. Gay refers to, and I’ve realized how our stories of our shared humanity can land us in a place of belonging, a place, symbolically, that is home. This helping of “comfort food,” BTW, is the complete opposite of my typical “There’s no place for me to go” frame of mind.

The Dalai Lama, in fact, in the movie, mentions a Tibetan saying, “Wherever you receive love, that’s your home.”

I will tell you the moment I felt I was “home” at the survivors conference: when I sat in a circle of about fifteen people at the church that donated their facility for the event. It was the moment Michelle Peters, area director of the Connecticut American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, welcomed the group, her throat constricting as she tried to suppress the tears in her eyes.

It was apparent that the sorrow was not only her own. It signaled Ubuntu in its purest form. Ubuntu means “I am, because you are.” It is derived from an ancient African word meaning “humanity to others” and describes connectedness, compassion and oneness.

(Again, quite coincidentally, the theme on the last day of the four-day summit based on Joy was “Interconnection & Ubuntu.”)

In other words, although Michelle did not know us, nor our stories, there were no strangers in the room. She knew our hearts and the depth of our sorrow.

I am because you are.

From the onset of the conference, Michelle set a “Thanksgiving” table in the affluent town of Darien, CT, and we sat and spent the bulk of our time sharing tears and sorrow, anger, disgust, rage, stories, more tears and sorrow and more stories and even laughter, all connected to the heart of the soul, the heart of Ubuntu, where our genders, skin color, ages, backgrounds, political affiliations, IQ’s and all the labels were set on fire, ablaze in solidarity. We held each other in our sorrows, and in the process, joy and thanksgiving filled the day.

Marshall Matters,” January 18, 1993 to November 19, 2019

My wish for each and every single one of you in my blogging community is that you find a renewed purpose, a fearless sense of thanksgiving to enable you to embrace the sorrow in your personal brokenness, and keep the faith that your brokenness will not break you, but allow the light and spirit of Ubuntu to shine through the cracks.

Faith Muscle

Renew! Refresh! Restart!

Renew! Refresh! Restart! in the morning … afternoon … evening … RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND. Faith is fluid, bursts forth like a river flowing, able to calm, cool and collect the most explosive moments and transform them into fresh beginnings. Whatever you have faith in, call upon it NOW!

Faith Muscle

Have a Little Faith

Faith Muscle

BE-lieve

Faith Muscle

The Changing Night Sky

Image by red-star-dreamy from Pixabay

The Delta Aquariids meteror showers finally inspired me and my fiance to try out a new telescope that’s been gathering dust in our living room since this past June.

These days, I mark very few thing on my calendar, but I did mark the meteor showers in fat red letters.

After twenty minutes of squinting into the contraption, we figured out that looking into the telescope paled when compared to relying on the human eye. As a result, we ended up in lawn chairs, heads bent ninety decrees, drawing imaginary lines as we star hopped across the sky.

Beyond the North Star, Big and Little Dipper, we vowed to study up on our future night maps to gain a broader insight into the language of the stars and, thereby, honor the majesty of our night sky.

In about a two-hour period, we spotted under a dozen shooting stars. Shooting stars, in actuality, are not shooting stars.

“Shooting stars, or meteors, are caused by tiny specks of dust from space. These particles burn up 65 to 135 km above Earth’s surface as they plunge at terrific speeds into the upper atmosphere, making the air glow as they pass.”

Reading the definition, I equate the phenomenon to the sky’s personal housekeeping practices and its changeless inclination to change. The process is akin to, for instance, letting go of an old piece of artwork, making room for a new one. It re-energizes and rids the room of stagnation, creates a clean slate and invites birth and new memories.

I was reminded of the paradox that if change signifies life then fighting change is … stagnation? Death? Imagine if we walked around in our baby booties for our entire lives? Ouch, that’s a pair of cramped feet. I suppose that’s how some people choose to live. I, actually, knew a middle-aged woman who still wore the same clothes she wore forty years prior. Single and alone, afraid of intimacy at any degree, she lived her life under a protective shell that warded out all degrees of hurt. Protective shells might keep you risk-free from the outside world, but inside their confines they limit the oxygen supply. Instead of having room to soak in the sunny and starry-lighted world to a point where it takes your breath away, over-protection can lead to living life on a sick bed. You have the proper apparatus to keep the heart pumping, but the equipment binds you to the bed.

Like it or not, change is a necessary part of life and maybe the more flexible we consciously become, the more we can accept the life cycle –birth to death – in everything, even a star. They say one day, albeit billions of years away, the sun and earth will one day die.

Unexpectedly, while we were finding our way around the finale of July’s night sky, I came to a state of awareness that helps me navigate our small orbit on earth. Day after day, summer to fall, the Big Dipper repositions and reminds me that I have no control over the natural flow of life. I can wish on an infinite array of lucky stars, but the truth is that all the faith in the world does not anchor life and halt its course to alter it to my desires; faith provides me the anchor to ride the wave of stardust.

Faith Muscle

Faith Forward

Baby steps climb mountains — and won’t cause shortness of breath.

Faith Muscle

Hurrah Hosta

Photo by Fiona Art on Pexels.com

When schedules and plans screw up, I owe my “it wasn’t meant to be” reaction to a former friend, Chris T. I met him over 30 years ago when black and white thinking, also known as a dichotomous thinking, caused me much disappointment when situations didn’t work out as planned.

You see, a few months after I met Chris, I was highly anticipating an upcoming out-of-town weekend away with a friend. Then she called me a week prior to our planned three-day excursion to inform me that she had to cancel our plans, because of family obligations.

Never mind black and white. All I saw was red. Even though she profusely apologized and the hotel agreed to refund our room deposits, I just couldn’t let the anger go. My emotions soared, as if I were commanding the wheel of a fire engine headed to a 24/7 wave of emergency blazes. Three days after reeling from disappointment, I ran into Chris and nearly hyperventilated as I conveyed my despair over my canceled trip.

When I finished explaining my situation, he simply stared at me and belted out, “So? So?”

I stood baffled at his response, waiting for an explanation.

“It’s a damn GOOD thing you’re not going!”

“What?” My bafflement was now more like shock.

“It wasn’t meant to be. Do you know you could have been involved in a car accident if you had gone? Maybe paralyzed for life — or maybe something worse. It’s a damn good thing you didn’t go. You should be grateful … ”

On and on he went. I felt as if I had accidentally landed on some remote island, met one of the natives and was trying with great difficulty to understand the language. I walked away without fully grasping the point he was making, but he planted a seed.

As my relationship with Chris grew, my perceptions about my life outlook slowly widened. I started comprehending the notion of gray thinking and, by doing so, I added a lot of interesting colors on my life palate. I mean, black and white aren’t even considered to be colors!

Below is an excellent explanation that I found on the internet of why:

“In physics, a color is visible light with a specific wavelength. Black and white are not colors because they do not have specific wavelengths. Instead, white light contains all wavelengths of visible light. Black, on the other hand, is the absence of visible light.”

As I consciously practiced this new, more flexible lifestyle, and learned to let go of unplanned outcomes, my trips to the gastroenterologist became less frequent. Over thirty years later, I cannot tell you how this conscious practice saves me each and every time when my black and white thinking returns, because it still does.

Take for instance, over a week ago. As much as I wanted to leave the house early and embark on a walk around the neighborhood, I left later than planned. By then, it was hot and humid, and it was making me feel crankier than usual. In fact, I almost turned around to return home. Those little critic critters in my mind kept beating my brain, saying, “You should have left earlier. You should have left earlier.”

Finally, I just shouted repeatedly to them: “Shut up!”

The strategy worked. It usually does. I made the rest of my walk in relative solitude. Looping back around, about 10 minutes away from home, I espied a sign, “FREE!” A kind, generous neighbor had plopped up the sign against a few dozen uprooted hosta plants that were for the taking. The plants had not been there when I had first started my walk. They were a gift to me, because it solved my dilemma as far as what type of flora I should plant around the house. I ended up picking the lot up later and putting them in my car’s trunk. A week later, they are growing nicely.

So, the moral of the story is: if I had left for my walk as planned, I would have missed the plant giveaway! Even though in my mind, the timing of the walk was off, it was, in actuality, exactly right! It illustrates exactly Chris’ point that changed my life so long ago.

Now, fast forward a few days later: thanks to the influence of Chris T. in my life and thanks to the hosta, I didn’t get too depressed about not being able to attend the Connecticut Press Club awards presentation last Wednesday.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I tested positive for COVID-19 and was unable to attend.

Instead of being recognized for winning FIRST prize for blogging and an honorable mention for travel writing at the awards ceremony and having an opportunity to meet the presenter, who is a pretty well-know author, I watered newly planted hosta that night.

As a “consolation prize,” I squirted the hose, watered down my sad emotions and lectured myself that there was a reason that it was better I did not attend the ceremony. ‘Who knows,’ I told myself, ‘maybe I would have tripped and twisted my ankle … or … ’ It simply wasn’t meant to be. Have a little faith and just say ‘thanks’ to the universe for blocking the whole shindig.

I dreaded looking at the event’s Facebook pic, but I forced myself to observe all the smiling faces, and I even offered my “Congrats!” to the winners. They really looked happy. Ego aside, I was happy for them.

Two days after the awards presentation, the good news is, I tested negative and I am Covid-free. Admittedly, still tired and a tad congested, but I have the best winner’s circle: a clean bill of health and one of the most empathetic and inspirational blogging communities I can imagine. In addition, I also have an assortment of hostas that lift their stalks up to the sun and remind me that roaring success is based on daily building blocks of achievements, such as making the bed first thing in the morning and watering the plants before nightfall.

Faith Muscle