Grampy Gene doesn’t have any grandchildren of his own, but they call him that anyway because he’s my partner of nearly twenty-five years and I’m their grandmother. They lost their birth grandfather to cancer only six months ago, so he’s taken on a bigger significance in their lives. He’s still just a step-granddaddy.
But how do we measure love?
We spent the winter at our house up on Puget Sound and spent a lot of quality time there with these two granddaughters, aged five and seven. My son brought them up to the island to celebrate Christmas, a tradition I hope to repeat every year.
I made dough-daddies just like my mother did on Christmas mornings when I was a child. As I drift into old age, reenacting moments like that are like grabbing a little piece of immortality, carrying things down to be repeated, keeping traditions alive.
Gene and I love to ice skate and we wanted to teach the girls. So we all met at a rink in Shoreline, rented skates and took off on the ice.
Catherine was game from the beginning. She grimly pushed herself out there, counting her splatters on the ice like a punishment. Emily clung to the sides mostly but braved the ice if I held her hand.
And Gramps was doing great. He’s a good skater, back on the ice after a few years. He was just getting his “ice legs,” skating backwards and doing leg lifts on one skate, but keeping his eyes on the girls.
Oops! He’s not so young anymore. Splat! Right on all fours on the ice.
“No, no, it’s nothing. I’ll just get some ice,” he insisted.
“Marilea, will you drive? My wrist hurts,” he whispered privately later.
Next day, x-rays at Urgent Care, double wrist fracture, painkillers.
“Geez, Marilea! Why’d you tell the kids? Now they’ll feel guilty we took them skating.”
Next morning, before she left for school, Catherine softly climbed into bed where Gene was sleeping, kissing him on the cheek.
This is an excerpt from my second memoir, Stepping Stones: A Memoir of Addiction, Loss, and Transformation.
“Our first house in Virginia boasted an outdoor speaker system so we could listen to music on the patio. But it was broken and we never had it fixed.
Instead, the speaker provided a nesting place for a number of birds in the six years we lived there. Every spring, forgetting that it was right next to our kitchen door but high enough for the birds to feel safe from curious humans, I would start to notice the flight of a couple of birds back and forth to the same spot. And there was a maple tree in front of our fence where one of the birds often sat, waiting its turn to be a parent.
“They’re back!” I yelped to my neighbor who was pulling up weeds. I felt foolish, tipping the birds off.
“I want to see how many eggs she’s laid, Angel. Please bring the ladder outside,” I asked as he was hanging up a picture in the dining room.
“Don’t be crazy; if they see you go anywhere near their nest, they’ll abandon it.”
So I left it alone, watching Mom and Pop swoop in and take turns sitting on the eggs.
One May morning I heard a lot of chirping coming from inside the broken speaker, and I observed the parents, one at a time, bringing food to their hatchlings. Such a simple cooperative effort, ensuring the welfare of their young.
Hatchlings became nestlings, and then came the end of the swooping. There were no more parents taking turns at the nest, and the comforting sounds of life, the chirping, had stopped.
I realized the babies must have been strong enough to leave the nest and test their wings. They had become fledglings, and they were off.
But I saw the female soon afterwards in the maple nearby singing.
Gosh, those baby birds must be miles away by now. And there was Mom hovering nearby, probably thinking the same thing.
Still I wonder, sometimes, if they can hear their mother singing.”
Time was passing:
The voice inside me would not be stilled.
For years I covered my ears
And prayed for peace.
But my road was not destined to be an easy one.
The mettle still needed much testing.
My real work was about to begin.
One day I woke up and
Prepared to take up the yoke.
Step by step, I plowed the field.
Hitting rocks, one by one, I
Moved them aside.
They weren’t too heavy. I found myself
Getting stronger the more I worked.
It’s a bittersweet victory, my field of flowers.
There was a price that was paid along the way.
As I stand and admire the smells and beauty
I see three smiling shadows darting behind the trees.
I remember when those happy smiles
Had form and function in my life.
But the Voice would not be stilled.
It consumed me.
And together, the Voice and I, watched helplessly
As the forms became shadows
Hiding behind trees.
The road to my spiritual life began when I was a young child growing up in an alcoholic family. But I didn’t start to walk this road until halfway through my life when my daughter fell ill with drug addiction.
I was very unhappy growing up. It’s a classic story of family dysfunction that many of us have experienced as children. But back then I didn’t have Alateen to go to. My father was never treated and died prematurely because of his illness. I, too, was untreated for the effects of alcoholism, and grew into an adult child.
Well, many of us know how rocky that road is: low self-esteem, intense self-judgment, inflated sense of responsibility, people pleasing and loss of integrity, and above all, the need to control. I carried all of these defects and more into my role as a mother to my sick daughter, and predictably the situation only got worse.
I was a very hard sell on the first three steps, and my stubbornness cost me my health and my career. But once I did let go of my self-reliance, my whole life changed for the better. The Serenity Prayer has been my mantra every day. I’ve learned to let go of what I can’t change. I don’t have the power to free Annie of her disease, but I can work hard to be healed from my own. This is where I’ve focused my work in the program.
My daughter has gone up and down on this roller coaster for twelve years, and right now she’s in a very bad place. But that has only tested me more. My faith grows stronger every day when I release my daughter with love to her higher power, and I am able to firmly trust in mine.
Friends of mine ask me, “How do you do that? You make it sound so simple!” I tell them, “First of all getting here hasn’t been simple. It’s the result of years of poisoning my most important relationships with the defects I talked about earlier. I knew I had to change in order to be happy. Secondly, I surround my heart with faith-based unconditional acceptance of whatever happens in my life. It’s my choice.
Somewhere in the readings, someone wrote ‘Pain is not in acceptance or surrender; it’s in resistance.’ It’s much more painless to just let go and have faith that things are unfolding as they are meant to. There’s a reason that HP is running the show the way he is. I just have to get out of the way; I’m not in charge. I also read somewhere the difference between submission and surrender: submission is: I’ll do this if I get XYZ; surrender, on the other hand, is unconditional acceptance. Well, the latter is easier because I’m not holding my breath waiting for the outcome. I just let go – and have faith. Again, it’s a very conscious choice.
We all have different stories. What has blessed me about a spiritual life is that I can always look within myself and find peace regardless of the storms raging around me. I’m learning how to dance in the rain.
No, not the kind that slither across the road
Until they get squashed by a fast-moving car.
I’ve seen a few of them on my morning walks.
Poor creatures: don’t snakes have ears?
No, these snakes are an invasive plant,
Burgeoning out everywhere.
But, like the vipers that don’t exist on this island,
These snakes have fangs.
Oh, don’t fall into a blackberry patch!
I think I’d rather drink poison and die a slow death
Than impale my whole body on those thorns.
I’d pass out from the pain, I’m sure.
They’re vicious and relentless, the way
They rise up over existing bushes
Like snakes ready to strike.
But I’m at the ready with my clippers.
Cutting them back as soon as I see them.
Some are just skinny babies.
Others half an inch thick.
But my clippers win today.
Tomorrow, more snakes will rise up out of the woods
And try to take over my landscaped grounds.
I won’t spray, though.
My deer family live here.
When we were still teachers in Virginia more than a decade ago, it was a rare summer that my partner, Gene, and I didn’t visit one of our wondrous national parks in the United States. In another life I’d seen much of the world in the Foreign Service, yet had known little of my own country.
But Gene had, and he was determined to share with me the wealth of his experiences. He has loved and appreciated the diversity of many of them, from the Adirondacks to Capital Reef to Yosemite. And the sheer beauty of them is enough to take your breath away.
One hot July in 2007, we traveled almost as far away from Virginia as you can get on the North American continent. We flew to Vancouver, British Columbia, to see the northern Rockies. On the highway to Whistler, where the Winter Olympics were held one year, Gene shouted suddenly, “Stop the car! I want to show you a beautiful lake. Drop dead gorgeous, jes like you,” planting a wet kiss on my cheek.
Well, he was a charmer. That’s one reason I fell for him. But I was the sensible one. Mix dreamer with practical and sometimes you just get vinegar…
Gene felt we needed to get far away that summer. A difficult personal challenge was proving to be too much for me to handle. I thought if I could knead the pain out of me by climbing a mountain, I might start to feel better. But I wasn’t twenty-five anymore. The physical challenge facing me now would be considerable. And the spiritual one, even greater.
Fifteen switchbacks: I counted ‘em. It was a long hike. The trail seemed to go for a mile before it mercifully turned the other way. Is that fifteen miles? Or does it just seem like that? We were backpacking on an elevated trail. And we had full loads. There’s only one way to go, and that’s up.
After a while I started fantasizing about being airlifted to our destination: powerful fairies swooping down and grabbing us by the shoulders, bypassing the trail and slicing straight up through the thickly stacked trees,gently placing our grateful bodies down at the campsite and returning to the air without so much as a thank you or a tip. Then I tripped over a rock and awoke from my reverie.
“Gene, for Chrissake, we didn’t plan this at all! We should have gone shopping first and gotten enough food to sustain us. How are we gonna live on so little protein?” I yelled, already anticipating disaster. My gnawing hunger brought out the worst in me, and my recovery was going to be sorely tested.
“Darlin’, when you see the turquoise lake at the top, you won’t care,” he assured me.
“Yes I will,” I whined, “Oh, yes I will…”
Every day when we wake up, life happens to us. We can’t escape from what comes. How we face it, the choices we make, with or without a problem to wrestle with, is a test of our mettle. I’m like everyone else: I have strengths and weaknesses. On this particular hike, out of the many we have taken, I failed to meet our difficulties with any grace. But, as with most of the failures littering my deck overlooking the water, this one in the Canadian Rockies contained a gem of wisdom to add to the many others I’ve collected over the years. It’s a highly recurrent one.
About halfway up, tired, sweaty, and irritable, we decided to lighten our loads by eating our hamburgers. That was a grave error in judgment, cutting down on our food supply so early in the trip. We would dream of eating those hamburgers two days later when we were running out of food and the stamina to keep hiking.
Another mistake was impulsively starting the hike at two o’clock in the afternoon. The only thing that might have saved us in that regard was the lingering light at that latitude in the summer months. But we would be cursed again, this time by the weather; we would not experience any evening lightness.
Gene and I soldiered on. We were both too proud to turn around and go back down. I kept thinking of that turquoise lake, and Gene kept belting out arias from Samuel Ramey in “Mefistofele.” Not a good choice, but I guess we were wrestling with the devil in some ways. My own dark side was coming out in glossy technicolor.
Five hours later, the sky grew dark and we knew what was coming. We got caught in a drenching downpour. If I’d adopted a better attitude, I’d have been grateful for the free air conditioning about to cool us off. We were near the end of the trail and came upon the lake Gene had been talking about. He marveled at it through the trees and pointed it out to me. But I didn’t care. My stomach was already growling. And I was soaked. I was in no mood for silver linings.
As we arrived at the campsite and prepared to pitch our tent, we were presented with one: the rain had let up just in time to appreciate our elevated spot overlooking Lake Garibaldi and Sphinx Glacier. A gorgeous spot that Gene photographed multiple times. It’s still one of his favorite photographs. But I was not yet able to distinguish between happiness and joy.
So began three days of wilderness camping and hiking on a subsistence level diet. It was necessary to ration all our food. Ration our food? On a demanding hike in the Canadian Rockies? That’s the one thing we should have had enough of. Primitive camping carries with it enough discomforts without adding that to the list. Gene has always added to his own backpack the weight of extra food so we’d never run short.
This was not the first nor would it be the last time we were swept away and allowed good judgment to take a back seat.
The next day we walked around that lake, eating half a sandwich each for lunch. I learned to eat slowly, savoring every morsel, which is how I should eat anyway. I never appreciated gorp so much. Dinner was half rations again and sleep was fitful. I was hungry.
We tackled the real focus of our trip on our second day at the campsite: a demanding trek up to the base of the Black Tusk, a volcanic neck on the shoulder of Mt. Garibaldi. We made it, trudged all the way up to the snow line. Took congratulatory pictures. Then we went back down with little to look forward to but half a sandwich.
The thing about hunger is, like pain, it’s a nasty distraction. Loading up on plenty of filling food every day, like most intelligent hikers, I should have been enjoying the breathtaking views. Instead, I was guzzling water to quell my hunger pangs—and dreaming about food.
The third morning, humbled for a couple of seasoned backpackers, we asked people for any extra food as they were packing out. They gave us apples and more gorp. And sorry looks.
Flying down those same fifteen switchbacks the next day, we jumped into the car and barreled down the road to a Chinese restaurant in Squamish. Spring rolls the width of thermoses, chicken and this, noodles and that, we gobbled up each dish like it was our last meal. Food had never tasted so good.
I’m certain I’ve never experienced true hunger or anything close to starvation. But food for the soul, that was what I was missing those three days. Had I been more willing to recognize silver linings in the midst of difficulties, I’d have ignored the discomfort and focused on the stunning landscape surrounding me. That would have been a deliberate and preferable choice.
Happiness involves many good feelings and happenings: nice weather, friendly people, a delicious meal. But I have found in my experience that it’s necessary to dig down much deeper to access the channels to joy.
On this Canadian hike the gem of wisdom most shimmering to me was that despite the outward and transitory nature of many things, both pleasant and otherwise, the joy that comes from gratitude at having persevered through any difficulty is most profound—and the most salient lesson of all.
Carter and I had been driving home from his friend Chris’s house one Saturday afternoon. Chris lived near Mount Pentelicus, one of my favorite haunts outside of Athens. From the crest of this hill on a clear day in winter, you could see the whole bowl of Athens with the smog hovering overhead. This was where the Brits came to celebrate Boxing Day every December 26.
Crowds of people also came to fly kites on Mount Pentelicus in December when the weather changed. As we turned the corner, we saw the tail of a kite peeking out from under a pile of rubbish, flags zigzagging down the string. Its owners must have had no more use for it when it lost its wind, and so it lay abandoned in the field.
Our curiosity taking over, we stopped the car, got out, and went to investigate. We wanted to breathe new life into this broken and tattered kite. I never thought that something inanimate could come to life. But at that time in my life, there was a dying in me that I knew I had to defeat or it would defeat me. My son was part of this tragedy, and somehow we knew that the road to healing could start with repairing that kite and watching it fly again. A dust-covered old TV pinning it down to the ground was holding the kite hostage. Its colorful tail saved it from certain death.
So we took the kite home and repaired it with glue and tape. We waited for a day with just enough wind to try and fly it.
I was restless inside, as though we were testing something other than the kite. Lying on the sofa for weeks, staring at our beautiful Christmas tree, I had been questioning my decision over and over. How could I do this to my family? How could I be so selfish? My mother stayed, I remember thinking to myself. And when I was much younger, she was one of the saddest, most guilt-ridden women I knew. I wanted to be happier than she had been.
The day to test the kite finally came, a clear, sunny day with a nice breeze. Together we took the kite back to the mountain. We watched it continue to rise and float in the air until all the string was used up. We ran with it as it leaped in the wind, flying like it was brand-new. A miracle!
We brought it down and carefully put it in the car. We would probably never fly it again, but I couldn’t let go of something that had taught me such an eloquent lesson: I was sure from that day on that there are second chances in life for those who have the heart to reach for them.
though I can’t solve your problems, I will be there as your sounding board
whenever you need me.’ ~Sandra K. Lamberson
emotional well-being is enhanced each time we share ourselves—our stories or
our attentive ears. We need to be part of someone else’s pain and growth in
order to make use of the pain that we have grown beyond. Pain has its purpose
in our lives. And in the lives of our friends, too. It’s our connection to one
another, the bridge that closes the gap.”
my lifetime have words and phrases meant more to me than “connection,”
“bridge,” and “closes the gap.” We are all living through an extraordinary time
where the viral pandemic has halted life as we know it. Of necessity, many of
our routines have stopped. From my small world of one to the world at large,
nothing will ever be the same again. This is a time when our physical health
and wellness are uncertain; it’s a time when the world is being engulfed by an
invisible threat which to some extent is out of our control. We’re doing our
best to slow the progression of the disease. Mitigation, social distancing. We
are being tested.
one, am enjoying yet another opportunity to look within and put things into a
larger perspective. And things will be different after this. I can’t see into
the future, and everyone’s world will change in different ways. But my world
already involves more appreciation for the finer things in life: things like
kindness, consideration and thoughtfulness, generosity of spirit and time, and
human connectedness. Just remember how Zoom crashed recently while Americans
across the country were anxiously trying to visually connect with one another. This
intense appreciation for those things will inform my choices on how to live,
what to do with my time. This is a good thing.
interconnected and interdependent. We may not be able to connect hands right
now, but we can connect our hearts and minds as we all strive to figure things
out, learn some important lessons, and determine to make our planet stronger for
the next generation to enjoy and pass on. The world belongs to my grandchildren
and their children. God keep me strong to leave them something beautiful and
resilient, reflecting the best in us all.
From Each Day A New Beginning, by Karen
Casey, April 12:
yourself a blessing to someone. Your kind smile or a pat on the back just might
pull someone back from the edge.’ ~Carmelia Elliott
We are healed
in our healing of others. God speaks to us through our words to others. Our own
well-being is enhanced each time we put someone else’s well-being first…We are
all on a trip, following different road maps, but to the same destination. I
will be ready to lend a helping hand to a troubled traveler today. It will
breathe new life into my own trip.”
Easter, 2020, seems to be ushering in a brave new world to us all. I remember hearing the term “globalization” about twenty years ago, and I wasn’t sure what it meant because I wasn’t experiencing it personally. Now, in the throes of a worldwide pandemic that I’m gratified I saw in my lifetime, I am experiencing what it means.
I’m living through this crisis because it is unveiling so many unsung heroes.
My confidence in the human race is soaring. My grandchildren getting
home-schooled by two loving parents tirelessly stepping up to the plate in a
game they never planned for. Health care workers risking their lives so that we
might live another day. Postal workers, baggers at the grocery stores; the list
is endless. But what I’m seeing as a result of all this courage is what Ann
Frank saw in that attic in Holland before she died: “In spite of everything, I
still believe people are really good at heart.”
every day that our lives, and how we live them, are brought into such sharp
focus, from frequent hand washing to thinking twice before we hug someone. How
life has changed for us all! Now it is abundantly more clear to us how what we
do in our individual spaces has an impact on the community we live in, and in
neighboring communities and so on. I’ve learned a great deal about what happens
in a petri dish.
But of much
more interest to me now is how the health crisis has brought out the best in
millions of people around the world. There are also sad, angry stories of
corruption popping up like weeds in my garden. But I don’t focus on them any
more than I focus on anything else I can’t control. I am heartened by this
Easter’s celebration of humanity and hope in a time of fear and uncertainty.
And how creative we are! Drive-in movie theaters have become venues for church
services. And long after Easter Sunday this year there may be a revival of
drive-in movie watching!
My Latin tells me that word means “live again.” Is that what we’re all doing
now? Learning how to live again?
For many of us, writing is a journey of self-discovery, full of delights and surprises. I never set out to write a memoir. I had no plan or outline, no clear beginning and an unknown conclusion. It just became one along the way.
Seven years ago, I had just discovered that my daughter was a heroin addict. So in my grief and frustration I found relief by writing about it. And then I stopped. I moved to New Mexico where I met a writer who would become my teacher and coach. Looking over what I had started writing she encouraged me to turn it into something. So I did: I gave her a 500+ page rant, something Chris Offut would call “the delirium of the first draft!” Well, I thought I was done. I was thinking of section titles and started writing notes to myself in the margins: things like “Oh, by the way, I had a miserable childhood;” and “Hush, hush, don’t tell anyone, but I’m an addict, too.” And I realized in confronting these truths about myself that this was my story. Angie and her drug addiction was the catalyst, certainly, that got me writing. But the story began with me.
So I went back and wrote an introduction, a window into my childhood and young adulthood as Angie’s mother. I wanted you, the reader, to know me. And I felt it was important for you to know my daughter as well. She was a beautiful, gifted, full-of-promise child and young woman—before this cruel disease corrupted her.
The rest of the book started out as the roller coaster ride of drug addiction—thirteen years, from 2001 until now—all the highs and the lows, the rehabs and the relapses, the joys and the sorrows, everything that accompanies unbridled drug addiction. That was the original plotline. But I added another one along the way: that of my evolving recovery from all this heartache. These two plotlines parallel each other, and they intersect a lot in the beginning of Angie’s illness. But at some point in the story they go in separate directions.
And it’s in sharing the change and transformation in me as a result of this most tragic event in any parent’s life that this angry narrative about drug addiction takes the shape of a memoir. I weave the voice of recovery into every chapter, from beginning to end, as I reflect back on events in my life—through a different lens.
At the beginning of Pentimento, Lillian Hellman’s wonderful collection of remembrances that she wrote back in 1973, she points out how artists sometimes paint over what they had painted before. They changed their minds; they “repented.” So too in literature, she adds, “the old conception, replaced by a later choice, is a way of seeing…and then seeing again.”