The Great Aloneness

Recently, I've struggled with an overwhelming sense of loss that has left me feeling completely alone amidst a sea of people, both friends and family.  Deep within my being, I long for something more, yet I can't describe it.  Have you ever felt that way?

When I turned 50 years old, I longed for a book, or a seminar, about "How to Turn 50".  I found books on anti-wrinkle exercises for my eyes, books on how not to look old and books about finding purpose in life as an empty-nester.  I read books on eating, meditating and loving.  I also threw those books away when there was no answer to what my soul needed.

I was so afraid of turning 50, that I put on a ban on birthday cakes, birthday cupcakes, birthday cards, gifts and absolutely any form of party!  The result was this: my Dad sent me a gift which I cherish to this day, my mother met me for coffee and a bagel, my daughter did call me and my husband took me to dinner and gave me a modest birthday gift.  There was no chocolate cake.  There were no candles, and no song was sung.

The next day, life continued.  My hair hadn't turned white over night.  In fact, the highlights and cut in my new "birthday hair cut" still look great!  Both legs still walked.  My dogs still wagged their tales and wanted to play outside.  The fact was: life continued.  50 wasn't some magically horrific age where my life imploded overnight.  

It was, however, the beginning of a very interesting journey.  A journey that was supposed to be "50 is the new 40" was instead of a journey of self-awareness and unbelievable pain.  A journey into what I will, as of today, call the great aloneness.  I secretly laugh at this term, because it sounds like the title of a country western ballad sung in a minor key.  While I laugh at my warped sense of humor, I also realize that if I wanted to, I could sit down in a puddle of my own tears while allowing myself to truly feel this aloneness.

As I write this, I reflect on all the times as a single mom I anxiously dropped by daughter off at pre-school while I went to work.  I worried about her.  I prayed for her safety.  I could hardly wait to pick her up after I got off work and made the 90 minute commute in the dark back home where I would feed her dinner.  I spent my sick days, taking caring of her when she was sick.  I spent my vacation days taking care of her when she was sick.  I always spent some of my grocery money on Crayons, coloring books and other books for her to read.  I spent endless hours watching Disney movies with her.  I loved being a mom.  

As I write this, I reflect on all the milestones in her life, and my life too.  Without her knowing it, she helped me battle cancer while I raised her alone when my marriage fell apart when I discovered I had breast cancer.  She never heard me crawl into my closet and cry myself to sleep.  I was so frightened of being alone.  With sheer determination mixed with a ridiculous and unhealthy love for buttered popcorn, pasta dishes and chocolate combined with a history of relationships that broke my heart repeatedly, I made it through my 30s alive.  My daughter graduated into Kindergarten, and I cried.  I was proud and sad and loved her so intensely that it hurt.  I knew there were so many ways I had missed the mark as a single mom.  I knew there were ways I had failed her.  She graduated into Middle School, and I cried again.  I was overcome with the feelings of joy, pride, accomplishment, love, and fear that we were growing through life moving forward into the unknown that would some day leave me with an empty nest.  I vowed I would make better choices for us both.  I would do my best to grow up and become the woman she thought I was.

As I write this, I reflect upon the profound joy and love I experienced when I watched her walk across the stage and receive her high school diploma with honors.  A few years later, I sat in a different arena and watched with an even more profound joy and love as she received her university diploma with honors.  I was too busy with details, friends, family and moving her back home to even begin to feel the massive flood of emotions growing inside my soul.

After her college graduation, I watched her pack her car to embark on another educational journey, and waved goodbye as I saw that little old green car drive cautiously down the street until it turned the corner and left me standing in the street in a puddle of tears.  Was I the only mother that had said "well done" with each phase of her life, and at the same time mourned the loss of having her move forward into her next experience of adulthood?  Was I the only mother who knew that it was time for her to go, to be set free, to live her life, yet grieved with this incredible feeling of isolation and loneliness?  What was wrong with me that I felt abandoned, while fully knowing that this was the next wonderful phase of her life?

This beautiful child has turned into a beautiful, poised, intelligent, creative, talented young woman who spent 13 months in South Korea teaching English.  Her purpose?  To see the world and "do life" as an adult.  To experience adulthood without me.  We talked or sent text messages or emails almost every day.  We truly have never been closer.  She needed me on many days, and it was my greatest purpose in life to be able to listen, encourage, or give advice when needed:  day or night.  I needed her in a most profound way, as I journeyed through incredible upheaval on my side of the ocean.  I needed her and she unwaveringly loved me.

She has since finished her tenure in Korea and lives in the same town just a few miles from me.  One would think that she lives 4000 miles away with how my heart aches!  I admire her more than any other person on earth.  She has traveled to a foreign country, navigated a life there, and then after a short trip to swim with shark whales, she moved back to the states to secure a job, an apartment, buy a car, and "do life".  She lives in the same zip code as I do.  I fully realize that many mothers would love to experience; yet, even with her in the zip code, I still ache with loneliness and fear of abandonment.

Are you seeing a common thread here?  

It is the thread of "I ache inside and I don't know why."

I know that logically, I shouldn't ache.  In reality, my emotions are buttressed behind a carefully built wall of deep, intense love and something I will call "my chosen maturity".  I am embarrassed to admit that I ache for the closeness of friendship we have had; yet, when we see each other, that closeness is still very much there. I don't trust it, because I have been repeatedly hurt and abandoned throughout my lifetime, not by my daughter but other relationships.  My relationship with my daughter is strong. It is sure.  It is alive.  There is an ebb and a flow.  And, it is all good.  It is a most precious gift.  Yet, I ache.

A friend today pointed out that my daughter represents what I have longed for my entire life: to be loved unconditionally, to be wanted, to be cherished, to be nurtured, to be accepted.  My daughter represents the feeling of family that is so strong it can withstand any trauma.  She is that family to me.  She represents the freedom of a child crawling into a parent's lap and being held closely.  Our relationship has been the one constant in my entire life that has never failed or wavered, or screamed, or yelled or judged.  Her love has never divorced me.

My adult mind knows that our separate lives is the most right, the most healthy, the most loving relationship I have ever experienced.  It has spanned 29 years of my mistakes, my fears and a countless list of illnesses and surgeries.  It has spanned her growing up, her pains and her joys.  She has never wavered.   Her love has never wavered.  She has comforted and held me, or wiped away my tears.  When she was 2 and I lost my hair because of chemotherapy, she patted my head and said, "Don' worry, Mommy, it grow back.  It grow back."  

And, it did.  It grew back. 

She is a gift to me from God.

As I write this, I reflect on what my friend told me today, "Your daughter represents all the belonging, all the connection, all the vows that you ever wanted to be true and pure in your life.  Her living her own life now frightens that part of you that feels more than it thinks.  It terrifies you because you are afraid that this connectedness will cease to exist.  Her living her own life causes you to doubt if you are valuable enough to live your life on your own, whether you are married or not.  It causes you to question and fear what the future will be like without her actively in your life on a daily basis.  It causes you to feel ...

... the great aloneness."

Aloneness.  I hate it.  And yet, at the same time, I run to it.  Aloneness is sometimes safer than the risk of relationship, and most especially the risk of judgment, rejection, and abandonment.

I am sitting at the kitchen table with the Christmas tablecloth underneath the laptop.  I am sitting alone while my husband sleeps upstairs.  I am sitting alone while the world beyond these walls is asleep.  I feel the great aloneness.

This time, however, I do not cry.  This time, I feel the feeling, and just notice it.  It hurts.  I don't like it.  It doesn't feel like Santa will ever come again on Christmas morning.  And, if he doesn't, I will be okay.  The next time I see my precious daughter, it will be different.  She will be even more grown-up.  I will look into her eyes and I will see the eyes of a beautiful grown woman; and I will also see the eyes of that precious baby I delivered almost 30 years ago.  I hope I will slow my life down long enough to memorize those beautiful eyes and drink in whatever conversation we might have.  Maybe we will talk about baking or skiing or work issues.  Maybe we will watch a fun movie.  And, maybe there will be some distance and she will walk out the front door, get into her car, and drive home.  

And I will be okay.  

It is my time to learn how to be okay in the great aloneness.

And there, in that aloneness if I am quiet and still, and very brave, I will see the face of God.  

And the pain will begin to recede as I look into the eyes of Love.

This is from a Facebook note that I wrote 2 years ago.  So much has happened in these two years. That's for another day, or week, or month.

I've been told that blogs should be direct, shorter, to the point.  I do very few things that way, unfortunately, I'm more of a story teller in all areas of my life.

Today, August 31, 2015, I found myself quite melancholy.  I remembered yesterday as I felt the seasons beginning to change, that my daughter and I were holding our sweet Siberian Husky, Sabre, as he breathed his final breath and his heart was quiet.  The pain was over; but our pain had just begun.  We had never experienced such incredible, overwhelming pain in our lives.  As I reread this post from 2 years ago, it helped me realize once again that life is a series of seasons.  Some seasons, we revisit.  Some seasons are brand new.  I'm hoping I can hold onto these feelings and thoughts, and press forward into my next season.  I pray and hope that this next season will be one of hope.  I know it won't be easy.

August 31, 2013
Today there is a briskness in the air.   Fall is rapidly approaching, even though the afternoons still bring scorching heat.  As I drove to work with the heater on, I decided to listen to a Christmas CD in the car in order to begin choosing music for my church's music selections for December.  With the first note of this music, I was transported back in time.  My father was a professional musician, and my childhood was filled with hours and days of glorious Christmas music that he played on his old turn table with vinyl records.  We would listen to them every night in December, and fall asleep listening to these carols.  Oh, how I loved the season from Thanksgiving to Christmas, largely because of this rich music filled with incredible text, melody and harmony.  As I sat in my car, continuing to listen to the Christmas music, I was reminded strongly of this past Christmas.  I was the music director of the Steamboat Chamber Singers (a small ensemble of advanced amateur singers). The day of our first Christmas Concert, my beloved husky, Cheyenne, had to be put to sleep.  The tears started to flow.  I closed my eyes, still soaking in the beloved music, and I could instantly see in my minds' eye the silhouette of Cheyenne's beautiful, velvety black ears.  Her face remained as that of a puppy, with trusting chocolate eyes midst the black mask and white muzzle that was her beautiful face.  How I loved this sweet, sweet dog.  She taught me grace and how to trust and hope to find love in every new day, midst her crippling pain that she couldn't understand.  One day, she was able to joyfully yet feebly fetch a ball.  That evening, she couldn't walk anymore.  It was as though I was watching my life through her life.  I didn't understand.  It broke my heart.  So, hours before I was to conduct this concert, I held her in my arms as she slipped away and into God's welcoming arms.  I know, without hesitation, that as I cried out to God to send an angel to be present in that room to be with us, He sent one just for us.  Before Cheyenne passed from this life, she looked up into the corner of the room.  She saw something.  I believe she saw that angel I asked to come be with me, with her, with us.  Midst the excruciating pain I felt, there was a tangible peace.  It was absolutely unexplainable.

That night, after the concert was over, the applause had long ended and the building was empty, I stood for a moment alone to reflect on  the concert and the pain that still flooded my soul.  I closed my eyes to take it all in.  I was so proud of myself for not falling apart during the concert.  I was proud of myself for even being able to stand.  I'm not one who has experienced visions, but I felt Cheyenne's precious presence.  Maybe because I wanted and needed to feel it?  Or, maybe because God let me feel profound comfort at the end of a day that overflowed with both grief and immeasurable musical beauty.  

I could almost see her black silhouette curled up at my feet, her white front paws curled up underneath her as she was alertly looking around the room.  She was there to tell me she loved me.  She was there to tell me thank you.  She was there to tell me that through God's loving presence in my life, I could get through this devastating grief and still breathe.

Even now, almost 9 months later, I am overcome as my tears pour down my face in the silence as I sit here alone.  2 years ago today, I had to put Cheyenne's precious, precious brother down too.  Sabre was a strong, striking, gorgeous silver Siberian Husky.  He had one crystal blue eye, and one light brown eye.  He had a "snow nose", with a little pink stripe that ran down the middle; and this handsome big boy had the heart of a child until the end.  There was no dog who could frolic and prance like this one did!  He was so sick, and he didn't understand.  He kept trying to eat, but couldn't keep it down.  We never left his side. Neither did Cheyenne.  Cheyenne, my rock.  Sabre, my barrel of laughs, beautiful boy.

Why does God allow me to love this passionately, this deeply, only to experience such profoundly devastating pain?  I feel as though my heart has empty, gaping holes in it.  Holes that were filled by these precious dogs that I believe God gave our family.  That God gave to me.

Why?

Perhaps God used my pets to show me His immeasurable love for me.  Even if I go "off leash" and run far from Him, even if just for the fun of it, God is there.  He will come find me, and if I am readied to hear His voice, I will hear Him calling my name.  If I destroy something, which is quite often the case, He may be frustrated or hurt, but He loves me as He picks up the broken pieces and puts me back together.  Just like my destructive huskies, I too am rather self-destructive.  And as many times as I picked up pieces of shoes, shredded blankets, and even a half-eaten sofa, I never stopped loving these crazy dogs.  I wonder if God thinks the same thing about me with my pieces of friendships, shredded past marriages, careers that seemingly end without reason -- remnants of a life that "should've been".

Life happened and shredded normalcy into tiny little pieces.

Fragmented and yet through it all, God still loves me.

I think that because of my life's path, my journey which led me through breast cancer at 28, a broken marriage, immense, mind-boggling bouts of acute abandonment and most recently heart disease,  God has brought healing to me through the love He has given me through the pets He loaned me.  I've seen that my dogs trusted me to feed them every day.  And, God has fed me ... when I bother to show up to be fed.  These dogs said good-bye to me at the door when I left for the day.  They stood by the window and watched me leave.  Yet, they absolutely trusted that I would come home.  I imagine that they slowly curled up into their beds, took long naps to ready themselves to leap for joy, wagging their tails uncontrollably when their master came through that magical front door at the end of the day.  These 2 dogs never stopped smiling when I returned.

It taught me that I am to do the same with God: that in the times when I've been waiting at the front door, He has always come home to me at the end of it all.  Do I wait for Him at the front door of my life, with great anticipation and overwhelming joy to welcome Him in through my heart's door?  Is there a smile of joy on my face?  Do I dance for joy, as my huskies did, when God shows up and brings light into my darkness?

So today, I miss you my precious Sabre and my beautiful, most beloved and sweet Cheyenne.  Thank you for teaching me joy, trust, hope and unconditional love.  I love you, I love you, I love you.

Thank you, dear ones, for being angels sent into our home to make our family complete.  God, may I be reminded today to wait for you to heal my broken pieces and make me whole.  May I be aware of your presence with me, even if I can't see or hear you.  Cause me to hear you as your footsteps walk closer to the doorway of my heart.

New seasons, again

I've been thinking for weeks now that I should write a blog, because I have so many conversations in my head while I'm skiing, or practicing flute, and quite often while I'm going about my day daydreaming. Sometimes, I also have some remarkable "Ah-Ha" moments.

As I sat down this evening with my daughter, my computer genius, she laughed when she found out that I had I begun the blog in 2010.  Here I was, 5 years older and hopefully wiser, yet the blog post could've been written yesterday.  Had I not grown at all?

Whether or not I have grown, during these 5 years since my first earnest attempt at a blog I have experienced life.  I have experienced incredible excitement.  I've also experienced almost the exact opposite: catastrophic, unbelievable, heart wrenching lows which resulted in profound abandonment and loss.  Wow, that sounds ominous and dark. There is light that can override the darkness, and then, almost as though a switch had been thrown, the dark times washed back over me.

Living in this town, sometimes I have overwhelmed at how much it snows in the winter.  It snows as much as I dreamed would be magical when I was a child.  As an adult, however, the feelings of darkness and feeling all alone can be shrouded in darkness.  After 5 years of living here, this past winter I made the conscious decision to take new joy in the fluffy, white, giant flakes of beautiful powdery snow that floats down from the sky.  It makes my world magically quiet, as though I truly am living inside a sparkly snow globe.

Snow - this type of snow that dumps sometimes for days on end, provides a blanket of gentle quiet all over our little world here.  The first year I was here, it didn't stop snowing for 22 days.  Let me rephrase that:  I didn't see the light of day for 22 days.  I say various shades of blue-gray, but not the brilliant blue sky against my world of white.

For the introverted musician that I am, I love to play piccolo, loudly, within an even louder orchestra.  At the same time, I truly love the quietness of many inches and feet of snow.  It's weird and fantastic all at the same time.  Good thing I've learned to love it, because last year I think we had 10 feet of the white stuff that blanketed our tiny community.

With that being said, of course, there is an unusual phenomenon I've begun to discover as I meet more women my age in our town.  It is an unspoken fear of "when will the snow start, and how will I make it until May?"  I've determined that it is a widespread unspoken fear that goes hand in had with, "I better get to the gym to work my core, my quads and cardio so that I can get into those cute little ski pants and generate the strength from which Olympians are made."  I

In this town, as opposed to the big city, I think this conflict of thoughts and feelings are normal amongst women.  Pedicures are replaced with sunscreen, moisturizer, long johns and a helmet.  Spray on tans are actually replaced with real tans sandwiched between a goggle line and a turtleneck line. Women are very tiny and muscular not necessarily just to look good, but to ... wait for it ... be strong and be able to ride a mountain bike UP a hill, hike UP the mountain with skis only to ski down 1 run at 6am and ski double black diamonds after having gone to a yoga class and a spin class before hitting the mountain.  Of course, this is all done before going home to fix dinner and then head to Zumba.

I digress.

Back to my thought process of being 50-something: Sometimes snow is as magical as I experienced it to be when I was a child.  And sometimes, it creates a fear at this age, "What if I fall?  What if I get I get caught in a blizzard somewhere between here and Denver?  What if I don't negotiate a high speed turn on the mountain, and wrap myself around a tree?  Who will prepare dinner, pay bills, and make sure the doors are locked?" And worse, "Who will plan my funeral?  Will the best musicians be hired, or will be people suffer through music I don't like?  Should I simply write my eulogy now?"  I also wonder if I'm the only woman my age who has odd thoughts like this going through her brain.  I'm beginning to realize that, "no", I am not the only one with a myriad of thoughts like this.

I ski a little slower and conservatively ... most of the time.

Another interesting thing I've discovered in this season of life is the actual daily act of being 50-something.  Everyday I relearn something.  I've realized that the young woman in me who has learned so many lessons has also begun to let go of who I always wanted to become, and actually be the person I am.  I've spent these past few years beating myself up, shaming myself, and even hating myself for not having the same drive that I had in my 20s, 30s and 40s.  There are days when letting go is very difficult.  And, in stark contrast, I've completely let go of a starched linen tablecloth and my beautiful 12 settings of lovely bone china and crystal.  Instead, they have been replaced by dishes with a few snowmen on the face of the plate, accompanied lovingly by my grandmother's sterling silver forks, knives and spoons.

I frequently sit with thoughts that go so far against what we were taught in the 70s and 80s:    LET GO of who I always wanted to become, and BE who I actually AM in this life.

Sometimes it hurts that those words don't line up with my dearest friends whom I admire as they are pursuing their dreams as doctors and nurses, airline pilots and fighter pilots, mothers to 1 child and mothers to 10 children and 5 grandchildren.  I am none of those things.  I am not finishing my Masters.  I didn't land a job in a higher paying professional orchestra.  I have become a wedding harpist who plays schmaltzy music for weddings.  I haven't recorded a professional CD, or been signed to a label.  I haven't been on a solo tour.  And, I also don't practice 6 hours a day anymore.  So, did I miss the mark?  Or, is the stability of status quo okay?

And really, who defines status quo?  Do I need to continue to raise the standard of excellence to the next best thing?

What if I simply make the choice to do the next right thing for me?

Hmmmm.

After years of angst because I desperately wanted to be normal and simply fit it in; I am beginning to realize that I am who I am.  And that's really okay.  God made me.  And that's good.  Do I have stuff to work on to make me a better me?  Sure!  But, God made me and I am choosing now to rest in that reality.  I think, perhaps, this might be genuine humility?

Honestly, it feels good to have dropped some of my hidden pride and competitiveness.  I've almost completely quit forcing myself to climb the career ladder of success in life.  It feels good to embrace my current "best" to fully live IN the present moment rather than ignoring the present moment and waiting for the future to be better.  What a colossal disappointment it is to wake up 5 years later and read that I spent 5 years waiting to achieve something miraculous, outstanding and worthy of landing me on the cover of some magazine.

Sigh.

If I sit quietly in front of my fireplace with my homemade latte in hand, I can gently respect the miracle that, for starters, I'm still alive.  Beat cancer:  check.  Beat heart disease:  check.  Beat an affair and lived through it:  check.  I can still laugh and cry.  And, I still make a pretty good latte and burn the toast with relative consistency.

I've begun to learn how to give myself permission to ease up on the pressure and learn to find my new normal.  (I was forewarned to never use italics and bold in a blog, but there it is.  It's important to me.  I want it to stand out, even if it breaks protocol writing etiquette today.)  It will be defined differently than the gal down the street, or that wonderful friend who always looks fabulous, or my other friend who is able to enjoy all the amazing, sparkly, new, fancy things I always imagined I would enjoy at this age.

My new normal became normal and stronger, after life became worse.

Let me write that again so that I remember it.

The new normal became normal and stronger, after life became worse.  

Here is how I got from Point A to Point B of finding my new normal:
I smiled.
I cried.
I powered through.
I totally faked it until I could make it to the next day.
And the next.
And the next.

And after the tears stopped, I walked into another job interview, answered the questions from my heart and became a ski instructor after having been rejected the year before.  Amazing.

That was one of the first empowering days that I experienced in a long string of empowering experiences after a year or 2 of ... hell on earth.

You see, in retrospect, what happened the day I was offered a job as a ski instructor, my heart sang when I realized I had been chosen.  It was empowering enough to walk out tall and smiling like a teenaged girl who was just invited to the senior Prom!  With those simple words, "You are the type person we want on our team" also came the feeling, "Somebody wants me."

I felt valued.  And, in those moments, my brain chemistry began to change.  I went to the gym.  I worked hard.  I dropped 20 pounds easily.  I couldn't wait to get my uniform and learn how to be a ski instructor.

That was wild too - the learning.  I was the 2nd oldest person in my "new hire" group.  I kept up even when it was scary, steep, and exhausting.  Digesting so much information, and amping up my alpine skiing skills, also scary.  And empowering.

Somebody believed that I could make a difference in guests' lives.  I dared to step up to the plate and reinvent myself completely.  Thrilling.  Overwhelming.  The new norm for me.

I became a new person when I zipped up that jacket and buckled my helmet.  I had been chosen to do this job.  I had been accepted. I finally belonged in a foreign town that, in my experience, had not wanted me.

Instead of sitting in a practice room for hours until my head was spinning and ears were ringing, I was now standing in line to get into a gondola car with 7 strangers and teach them how to ski.  Mind blowing.

The new norm.
Change:  the brain hates it.
Change:  I needed it.
Change:  I could do it.

It was scary.  And yet, when it was time to tip my skis over the edge of what seemed to be a giant, snow covered cliff, I dropped in and became a more brave and secure person.  It didn't matter that it wasn't who I imagined I would be at this age.  What mattered was that I skied strongly with determination to the bottom of that mountain with graceful power.  It mattered that I smiled as I negotiated each round turn on those 2 freshly waxed skis in which my boots were clicked tightly. That was my new norm.  And I loved it.  And I was reborn, every day with each new gondola ride.

The New Normal - perhaps that is actually what being 50-something is.  Trying on a new outfit in life and embracing those changes as the seasons change with the color of our hair, and the magnification of our reading glasses.  The New Normal - greeting each new day that is new and familiar at the same time, and living it with grace, humility, wisdom and love.  Most of all love.  Learning to love myself in this moment, in this body, in this sacred place where my body, soul and spirit meet to create the unique me I am at 50-something.  As I do that, I am better equipped to love others openly without reserve, yet with wisdom.  And in the long-run, isn't that what its all about?